Golden Relic

by Lindy Cameron

“I take it you’re on the committee,” Sam commented.

  “No I’m not,” Gould replied bitterly. “That’s was why I was angry. Lloyd got my place on that committee, yet he didn’t give a damn about it.”

  “I see,” Sam said. “During this loud argument, Mr Gould, did you strike the Professor?”

  “Of course not!” Gould was appalled. “And I certainly didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re implying. Lloyd was very much alive when I left him, at about quarter to six.”

  “Do you recall if anyone saw you leave?”

  Gould closed his eyes for a moment. “There may have been a couple of people left in the offices on the way out and there were a few milling in the Library foyer.” He shrugged. “I can’t remember anyone specifically and I’ve no idea whether they noticed me.”

  “Why do you suppose he volunteered that information?” Rivers asked, feeding coins into a drink machine in the hospital hallway.

  “Because he’s got nothing to hide,” Sam suggested. “Or because a witness to that argument may turn up, and he no doubt thinks it’s sensible to be up front from the start.”

  “I’d say he just made the top of the suspect list,” Rivers whispered.

  Sam nodded. “He’s got motive, petty as it might be, and obviously opportunity. It’s the means we have to investigate now. Gould certainly has the physique to be able beat the crap out of someone like Marsden, but the poison is another issue.”

  “Search warrants?” Rivers asked.

  “Search warrants,” Sam agreed. “But not yet. I think we - Jack, you and I - need to go over everything we’ve got first. Gould is almost too obvious for my liking.”

  “And there’s the guy, the student,” Rivers reminded her.

  “Yeah, the ‘Peter Gilchrist’ guy,” Sam enunciated, reminding Rivers he’d been note taking instead of processing again.

  Melbourne, Saturday September 19, 1998

  “Detective Diamond, you look like you could do with a nice strong coffee.”

  Sam had been quite lost to her surroundings as she examined a life-size photo of a burning body on a small funeral pyre beside a river, in which red-saried women were standing apparently washing their hands. She turned to find Adrienne Douglas offering her a mug.

  “Black, no sugar,” Adrienne verified. “I heard you tell your offsider yesterday.

  “You’re a lifesaver, thank you,” Sam said, accepting the mug.

  “I gather you don’t get Saturdays off when you’re investigating a murder.”

  “Not this early in the investigation,” Sam stated. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen my offsiders?”

  “The big guy was with Enrico near the yoni display, but I don’t know where they went.”

  “Did Professor Marsden mention his trip to South America to you, Adrienne?”

  “Yes. When was that? Oh, I think it was the same day, you know the day he died.”

  “What did he say exactly?”

  “We’re hosting a dinner tomorrow night. It’s a PR exercise, sort of a pre-opening thank you to all the people who’ve helped with the exhibition and to your Museum for having us here. I asked the Professor if he was bringing his wife, or whatever, and he said he couldn’t make it, because he was flying to Peru on Saturday. That’s today.”

  “Did you think it odd that Marsden was just taking off like that when he was supposed to be helping you get this show off the ground?” Sam asked.

  “Not at all. The Professor was basically a liaison officer but a very efficient one. We’d gone over all our concerns with this site, and talked about the things that had gone right and wrong in other cities. He introduced us to everyone who could provide help or support at short notice.”

  “I see there’s no rest for the forces of law and order.” Dr Marcus Bridger had appeared by Sam’s side without warning; she could certainly have done with one. Although her reaction to his presence wasn’t as drastic as the day before, she nonetheless had the oddest sensation that her blood had just turned to hot treacle.

  “Detective Diamond isn’t it?” he said.

  “Yes, Dr Bridger,” Sam replied calmly. “I must say I’m impressed by how fast the exhibits are being put together.”

  “We’ve had a lot of practice,” he stated, smiling warmly. “This is our eighth venue in 18 months, and we’ve still got Wellington and Montreal to go.”

  “It helps that we’re ahead of schedule because you managed to get the exhibits here a day earlier than expected,” Adrienne commented.

  Dr Bridger acknowledged the statement, but returned his attention to Sam. “I was most distressed to learn of Professor Marden’s tragic death,” he said. “He was such a gentleman, a rare breed indeed, and most generous, I hear, with the time he gave to our exhibition.”

  “You did meet him then, Dr Bridger?” Sam queried.

  “Yes, we all dined together on���oh. What day was that, Adrienne? I’ve lost track.”

  “Wednesday. The day we all first arrived, and the night before you returned to Paris.”

  “Who was at this dinner?” Sam asked.

  “My team, the Professor of course, Daley Prescott and a few other people whose names escape me I’m afraid,” Dr Bridger replied.

  “I spoke to a dear old fellow called Robert for a while,” Adrienne volunteered. “But the Professor himself didn’t stay very late. He left about nine because he wasn’t feeling well. Remember Marcus? It was just after you and he had been talking.”

  Dr Bridger looked like this was news to him. “I don’t recall. I do remember having my ear all but talked off by Daley Prescott,” he said, and then added, “Ah, I gather you’ve had a similar experience, Detective Diamond.”

  Sam had tried unsuccessfully not to laugh so there was no point denying it. “The full treatment,” she said. “I know more than any detective ever needs to know about museums.”

  “There’s your partner in crime detection,” Adrienne said, pointing over Sam’s shoulder.

  Sam thanked Adrienne again for the coffee and excused herself to join Rigby.

  “I hear Enrico,” Sam said, rolling the ‘r’, “has been bending your ear yet again, Jack.”

  Rigby sighed. “He told me Barstoc returned to their hotel at 2 am the night of the murder.”

  “Why did he tell you this?”

  “Because he overheard Barstoc telling us he’d returned at midnight.”

  “And because he’s trying to be helpful,” Sam added.

  “As best he can,” Rigby laughed. “Why are we here again, Sam?”

  “To track down a Peter Gilchrist. Didn’t Rivers tell you about him?”

  “I haven’t spoken to him today. I left instructions for him to go over Marsden’s office again, to see if there’s anything we overlooked.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like���I don’t know. If I did, we wouldn’t have to search for it,” Rigby said. “But if he was into the horses he might have owed money. Maybe his bookie bumped him off. This Gould character has gone to the top of my list though.”

  “I thought you said you hadn’t spoken to Rivers,” Sam said.

  “I haven’t,” Rigby stated. “But yesterday I spoke to a researcher who wasn’t in the old Museum the day Marsden’s body was found, but was there late on Wednesday. She overheard���”

  “���An argument between Professor Marsden and Haddon Gould,” Sam finished. Rigby looked like his thunder had been stolen. “He told us all about it, Jack.”

  “Did he admit to a lot of shouting and abuse and then storming out?”

  “Yes. Did this researcher see the Professor afterwards?” Sam asked.

  “No, but she said it was very quiet down that end of the hall after Gould left.”

  “Well Gould was doing all the shouting, so I’m sure it was. Marsden could still have been alive and working quietly.”

  “Or hallucinating and dying in paralysed agony,” Jack argued. “Did Gould tell you what they were arguing about
? Can we find a motive for this guy?”

  “He said he was angry about Marsden taking off for Peru when he had commitments here. Gould believed the Professor got his place on the ICOM ‘98 committee. But I spoke to Prescott this morning and he claims Haddon Gould would only have got a position on that committee if everyone else in the Museum, including the cleaning staff, had turned it down first. Not that that matters. It could be enough that Gould thinks he lost his place to Marsden. I think there’s more to Gould’s resentment of the Professor than we know, but I’m not sure it translates into making him capable of murder.”

  “Well he’s odds-on favourite for me. I’ve organised warrants to search his home and office. I suppose you still think it’s one of this lot,” Rigby waved his hand around at the Exhibition.

  Sam gave a noncommittal shrug. “How do you suppose Bridger managed to get the second lot of exhibits here a day early?”

  “Um, obviously he put them on an earlier flight. What difference does it make? He still didn’t arrive early enough to be a suspect, so why do you care?” Rigby asked.

  “Because it’s odd, Jack. Remember Prescott’s rave about transporting shows like this? It’s not like Bridger could just turn up at Paris airport with all his stuff and hope to get on the next available flight.”

  “If it’s bothering you, Sam, why don’t you ask him how he managed it? But it’s my guess he probably just knows the right people.”

  “Maybe. Oh, that reminds me.” She pulled out her phone and dialled Rivers’ mobile number. “Hey Rivers, it’s Sam. Are you still in Marsden’s office?”

  “Yep. And I think someone other than our forensics team has been here too.”

  “Great,” Sam moaned. “When you’ve finished could you track down Robert Ellington and���”

  “He’s here, Sam.”

  “Oh. Good. Could you ask him about the dinner he went to on the Wednesday before last, the 9th, with Prescott and the bods from the Life and Death show. See if he remembers hearing any part of the conversation between Dr Bridger and Professor Marsden.”

  “Sure. Do you want to wait while I ask?”

  “No. Prescott has arranged for me to see Dr Tremaine at 6 pm in the bar of the Regency Hotel. Can you meet me there at 6.30?”

  “Okay. I’ve got that info you wanted from the internet. I’ll bring it with me.”

  “Excuse me, are you the police officer who’s been looking for me?” A gangly young man, with receding blonde hair and a pitiful excuse for a moustache, was staring earnestly at Sam through a pair of round-rimmed glasses. He was wearing jeans, and a T-shirt with the slogan: Archaeologists Dig Deeper. “Peter Gilchrist,” he stated, tapping his own chest.

  “Ah, yes, Mr Gilchrist,” Sam acknowledged, introducing herself and Rigby. “We wanted to ask you about your association with Professor Marsden, and when you last saw him.”

  “Yeah, the poor old bloke. What a way to go, eh?” Gilchrist shoved his hands in his pockets and stared around the room for a moment. “I’m, or I was, one of Professor Marsden’s students. I’m studying archaeology at Melbourne Uni. The Prof was generous enough to take me on earlier this year as his assistant, part time.”

  “Where have you been all week?” Sam asked.

  “At home studying. I worked for the Prof on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and some weekends. Like this one and the last, helping out here. I only found out about him dying yesterday, when he didn’t turn up for our tutorial.”

  Sam found she was irritated by Gilchrist’s habit of either studying her face as if she was an interesting specimen or not looking at her, or Rigby, at all while he spoke.

  “So you saw him on Wednesday,” Rigby said.

  “Yeah. At the old Museum in the morning. We were cataloguing stuff. Then after lunch we met up here to help out with a problem Enrico was having with the fittings for the photo displays. The Prof was in a pretty grumpy mood in the afternoon.”

  “Was he?” Sam noted. “Did you know he was supposed to fly to Peru today?”

  Gilchrist dropped his gaze to concentrate on Sam’s chin. “Nah, didn’t know about that.”

  “When did you last see the Professor?” Rigby asked.

  “We finished up here at about 4.30 on Wednesday. He was going back to the Library but said he didn’t need me. So I went to the pub and met up with some mates from Uni.”

  Rigby grunted as Gilchrist walked away inspecting the floor, the walls, the ceiling and the floor again as he did so. “These museum types keep getting weirder,” he complained, “I’m gonna check his alibi. I don’t trust a bloke who can’t look you in the eye when he’s talking.”

  “Marsden had words with him on Wednesday.” Vasquez had materialised as if from thin air.

  “What sort of words Se��or Vasquez?” Sam enquired politely.

  “Harsh words,” Vasquez nodded. “I believe you call it a dressing down. I gather Peter had again not carried out a task the Professor had set him. Something to do with a late paper. Marsden was most annoyed. He told Peter that he’d better pull up his socks or even the extra work he was doing would not help him pass.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us this before now?” Rigby demanded.

  Vasquez turned his palms up in apology. “He is, wouldn’t you say, an instantly forgettable young man?”

  The bar of the Regency Hotel was lit to provide maximum relief for tired eyes without leaving patrons completely in the dark. Sam took a seat at the bar, ordered a beer and surveyed the rest of the clientele. In front of the large tinted window that faced Lonsdale Street, 12 businessmen had pushed some tables together and were noisily giving drink orders to a waitress who looked like she’d already had enough of customers like them for the day. Two tizzied-up socialites were sitting in a booth besieged by shopping bags, and the only other woman in the place looked like she’d been outfitted by the same drag queens Jacqui had met on Thursday night. Her shoulder-length auburn hair had been given electric shock treatment and she was wearing a loose purple shirt, gold leggings, and black runners - fine attire for a 20-year-old but this woman was fast approaching 50. Sam hoped the woman was waiting for a loving husband because if she was on the prowl for Mr One Night Stand she’d probably only end up with a vice cop. Sam sent up a prayer to the goddess of single women that she’d never have to hang out in hotel bars to���she slapped herself mentally. The woman she was being so ageist and judgemental about had a delightfully charming face, looked fit and braced with energy, and probably had better luck with men than Sam ever did.

  “Isn’t it a sign of madness, or something, to drink alone?”

  “Adrienne?” Sam said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  “We’re all staying here at the hotel,” Adrienne replied, slipping onto the stool beside Sam. “Is this where you hang out?”

  “No,” Sam laughed. “I’m waiting for someone.”

  “Damn. I was going to offer to buy you a drink, Sam. Can I call you Sam when you’re obviously off duty, and���” Adrienne glanced around the room, “���and we’re in a bar?”

  “I guess so,” Sam smiled. “You can buy me a beer too if you like.”

  “Good. Oh damn!”

  “There you are Adrienne, I wish you’d stop wandering off,” Marcus Bridger was saying loudly, as he manoeuvred his way around the tables to the bar. “Detective Diamond,” he added brightly. “This is a pleasant surprise. Or are you following us?”

  “Should I be?” Sam asked, wondering what his tweed jacket felt like, up really close.

  Bridger smiled suggestively. “Only if you’ve nothing better to do.”

  “Oh, well in that case I’ll have to give it a miss. I’m taking my grandmother on her first moonlight parachute jump tonight.”

  Dr Bridger’s taken aback expression dissolved into laughter - a warm, rolling laugh. He clasped his hands to his chest and gave a slight bow. “I am truly devastated that we cannot stay,” he said, taking Adrienne by the elbow. “But no doubt we’ll b
e seeing you again.”

  Hopefully, Sam thought, watching them walk away. She swivelled back to face the bar.

  “It seems we are about to have our preconceptions dashed on the rocks of reality.”

  Oh no, not again. Why do I attract all the nutters? Sam wondered. The wild-haired woman, all five-foot-four of her, had moved from the other end of the bar to stand beside her.

  “I beg your pardon?” Sam asked politely.

  “You were no doubt expecting Margaret Rutherford, or a similar large-breasted, tweed-suited ‘Miss’ of the jolly-hockey-stick type,” she stated.

  “Dr Tremaine?” Sam was flabbergasted and there was nothing she could do to hide it.

  “Indeed. And you my dear look more like a dark-haired Meg Ryan than the Humphrey Bogart of my expectations. Clearly I should read or watch more contemporary crime fiction.”

  “What should I do?” Sam asked, worried that if the wind changed now she’d be wide-eyed and open-mouthed forever.

  “Buy me a whisky, dear. And call me Maggie.”

  Fifteen minutes later, having retreated to a booth together, Sam realised that she’d given Maggie a complete rundown of the investigation so far, minus the details about the actual cause of death and likely suspects, but hadn’t asked a single question herself.

  “I was wondering how you knew Phineas,” Maggie commented when Sam mentioned interviewing the Rites of Life and Death team.

  “Who?” Sam asked.

  “Marcus. He’s known, within the museum community, as P.T. Barnum. The ‘P’ stands for Phineas.” Maggie explained. “Is he a suspect?” She seemed quite taken by the idea.

  Sam shook her head. “He wasn’t even in the country.”

  “So who are your suspects?”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Maggie,” Sam said, trying to gain control of the conversation. “You seem to be the one person who might know if Professor Marsden had any enemies, if he owed money, why he’d suddenly decide to go to Peru, what that trip has to do with his murder - if anything, what hancsgoc or hanosgoo means, why���”

  “What what means?” Maggie asked.

  “I’ll get to that in a minute,” Sam said. “Can you think of any reason why anyone would want to kill the Professor?”