Bessie nearly had to drag Marjorie into the corridor and then through the museum to the café. The last remnants of lunch were still being cleared away and Bessie quickly fixed her friend a plate of food. She also piled a bunch of pastries onto a plate and handed them to the uniformed officer.
“We don’t have to mention this to Inspector Corkill,” she told him.
“Gosh, thanks,” he said with a huge grin.
Marjorie ate silently and mechanically, while Bessie patted her arm and kept her teacup full. It wasn’t much more than ten minutes before their uniformed companion received a call to let him know that Corkill was ready for Marjorie.
“There, you see? He only needed ten minutes with Harold. I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Bessie assured Marjorie.
Marjorie didn’t answer; she simply gave Bessie’s hand a squeeze and then followed the constable down the hall. Bessie sighed and grabbed herself another pastry as she left the room. It was getting closer to time for the round table discussion and not only did she not know where it was being held, she wasn’t sure if Harold and Marjorie were even going to be able to take part.
Chapter Six
In the end, someone made the decision to hold the round table talk in the upstairs foyer. While that meant that they might be frequently interrupted by people coming and going, it was felt that the foyer setting was more conducive to the sort of group discussion that the organisers wanted to encourage. By the time Bessie reached the foyer, the area had already been set up for the talk.
Bessie smiled to herself as she took her seat at the end of the long rectangular table. Of course, if they had actually used a round table, some of the participants would have to have their backs to the audience, but it amused her that the event was so obviously misnamed. Harold was already sitting in his seat at the middle of the table, with Joe Steele to his left between Harold and Bessie. Marjorie’s name was on the name card to Harold’s right. William Corlett and Claire Jamison finished that side of the table, and Bessie saw that Paul Roberts was meant be to be sitting between her and Joe. Paul arrived only a moment later, saying a polite “hello” to Bessie as he slid into his seat. He immediately opened a notebook and began to write furiously.
This gave Bessie time to reflect on what she knew about the man. Somewhere in his mid-sixties, he still looked like the hippy he had once been. His grey hair was long and untidy and his clothes were brightly coloured but in bad repair. He was something of an amateur archaeologist, in that he’d never taken a degree in the subject. Instead, he’d learned by doing at sites all across the British Isles. His many years of experience had made him an expert in Roman finds, which consequently meant he rarely visited the Isle of Man. Bessie had met him at a handful of conferences over the years and she had come to like the grumpy and somewhat prickly man. There were some that felt that his lack of a formal degree meant that he shouldn’t be taken seriously, but Bessie didn’t fall into that camp.
Marjorie slipped into the room looking as if she was still close to tears. She made her way to the table as quickly and unobtrusively as she could, pausing when she reached Bessie’s end of the table.
“They just wanted to know if I knew where Mack’s slides had ended up,” she whispered to Bessie.
“What slides?” Bessie asked. “The ones from last night?”
“Yes, it seems they’ve gone missing,” Marjorie replied.
“But how could that happen?” Bessie asked. “Did Mack have them with him in the cuillee or were they still in the projector at the back?”
Harold frowned down the table at Bessie and Marjorie. “If we’re all here, we should probably get started,” he said loudly.
“Later,” Marjorie said as she slid past Bessie towards her seat.
“I wanted to see those slides,” Paul said in Bessie’s ear as Harold stood up slowly.
“I’m sure you’re not the only one who wanted a look,” Bessie said in response.
Paul frowned and looked as if he wanted to say more, but he was interrupted.
“Well now, good afternoon,” Harold said loudly to the small crowd that had gathered. “Welcome to our round table discussion on archaeological and historical research methods. Every one of the speakers on the panel has given, or will be giving, a talk here at the conference this weekend. For now, they’re going to talk about their own work and their own individual research methods.” He paused, and after a moment a few people clapped politely.
“Yes, well, then, as I was saying, everyone is here to share their best ideas. Each of our speakers will give themselves a short introduction and talk for a few minutes about their research methods. After everyone has had a chance to speak, we’ll open the floor to questions from the audience. I’m hoping that this will be one of the weekend’s best opportunities for us all to learn from one another.”
Another courteous round of applause followed as Harold sat back down in his seat. The introductions started at the opposite end of the table, so Bessie sat back and listened as Claire gave a short biography of herself and then discussed the day’s topic. By the time the other five speakers had had their turn, Bessie was feeling quite drowsy and she worried, as she began her own introduction, that the audience was as bored as she was.
“Good afternoon, I’m Elizabeth Cubbon and I’m an amateur historian. I have been specialising in studying wills from the nineteenth century, and I’ll be talking more about that tomorrow afternoon during my presentation.” Bessie kept her remarks as brief as she could, eager to get to the questions from the floor. She could only hope that they would liven things up a bit.
Half an hour later, Bessie was starting to worry that she was going to fall asleep right there at the table. Harold was relating yet another long story about an archaeological dig that had found absolutely nothing and Bessie mind was wandering all over the place.
“Okay, time to make this interesting,” Paul muttered under his breath as Harold finally wound up his tale. “I have a question,” he said loudly. “What happened to the slides from Mack’s talk last night? I want to have a good look at them to see what exactly he found.”
Harold flushed and shook his head. “The police are investigating that very thing,” he told Paul. “At the moment no one seems be certain where the slides disappeared to during the confusion last night.”
“Well, that’s rather convenient for you, isn’t it?” Paul asked.
“Whatever do you mean by that?” Harold demanded, his face bright red.
“If Mack really did find what he claimed to have found, your career is in trouble, isn’t it?” Paul shook his head. “I didn’t like Mack and he didn’t give me any respect because I didn’t have the right piece of paper to show folks, but if he did find Roman remains on the island, he deserves proper credit for that.”
“I hope you’re not suggesting that I would do anything to interfere with Dr. Dickson getting full credit for his work?” Harold was nearly incandescent with rage.
Paul shrugged. “I just think it’s weird that the slides have disappeared, that’s all,” he said. “I didn’t arrive on the island until this morning, so I missed the big announcement and the slide show last night. I was really looking forward to examining the finds in detail. Does anyone know where Mack was keeping the things he discovered?”
Harold glanced at Marjorie, who shrugged, and then shook his head. “Mack showed us a handful of slides of what he said were Roman remains,” he told Paul in a tense voice. “He didn’t say anything about where he found the remains or what he’d done with them. I suppose we would have tried to get that information during the question-and-answer session if it hadn’t been for Mack’s unfortunate accident.”
A burst of laughter from the back of the room captured everyone’s attention. Bambi waved as all eyes were suddenly on her. “I just love how you described Mack’s death as an ‘unfortunate accident,’” she said loudly. “He was murdered and everyone in here knows that. It’s only the police that want to think otherwise.”
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br /> “Now, now, Ms. Marks,” Harold said anxiously. “I’m sure the police are doing a thorough job of investigating Mack’s, um, untimely passing. It certainly isn’t my place to offer any opinion about what happened to him. I’m sure we shouldn’t even be speculating at this point. Not about poor Mack and not about the slides, either.” The last remark was directed at Paul, who shook his head.
“Shouldn’t be speculating?” Bambi repeated. “Surely it isn’t speculating when you know something absolutely. Mack would never have eaten anything he wasn’t one hundred percent positive was safe. He must have trusted whoever gave him that brownie. There’s no other possible explanation.”
“And I’m sure the police are giving that idea their full attention,” Harold said, in what Bessie could only assume was meant to be a reassuring tone. “Figuring out what happened to Mack is their job. I’m an archeologist and a historian, not a police detective. I didn’t think you worked for the police, either?” he challenged Bambi.
“If it wasn’t murder, where are Mack’s adrenaline injectors?” Bambi countered Harold’s question with her own. “You must know that he always had at least three with him at all times. I hope you’ve told the police that fact.”
“I knew Mack had a nut allergy,” Harold answered. “Anyone who ever organised a conference that he attended knew about his food allergies. But what he did about ensuring his safety with regard to that allergy was his own business, not mine. I vaguely remember him pulling out an injector once at some other conference when he was worried about something he’d eaten, but I certainly couldn’t tell the police that he always carried three of them with him. I had no idea.”
“But where did the....” Bambi kept going, but Harold interrupted.
“Young lady,” he said loudly over her words. “I understand that you are very upset about your loss. But we are trying to run an academic conference here, not a police investigation. I suggest you take your concerns and your accusations to Inspector Corkill. I’m sure they will be far more welcome there than they are here. Now, where were we?”
“We were talking about the missing slides,” Paul reminded him with a nasty grin.
“Ah, yes, well, as I said, the police are investigating that and, again, I think we need to leave them to do their job. Let’s open the floor to other questions, shall we?” Harold sighed and then looked out over the small group that was listening intently now. A hand shot up from the audience. Harold smiled gratefully at the young man who stood up as Harold acknowledged him.
“Um, hi, I’m Dan Ross, from the Isle of Man Times. I was wondering whose farm it was where Dr. Dickson found those remains that everyone is so worked up about.”
Harold frowned. “As of right now, we don’t have an answer to that,” he told the reporter.
“But surely after everything that’s happened, someone must have come forward and identified themselves?” the man said incredulously. “I mean, this is the biggest find in years, possibly the biggest find ever on this island. I understand that Dr. Dickson wanted to keep it quiet until his talk, but now that it’s public knowledge, surely the farmer will want to talk to other archeologists about what’s on his land and, hopefully, he’ll have a few words for the press as well.”
“As I said,” Harold repeated himself stiffly. “The last I knew, no one has come forward to admit to owning the land that Mack excavated.”
“Surely between you all, you must have a guess as to who it is, though?” Dan argued. “You’ve been digging on the island for something like fifteen years, and William Corlett was born and raised here besides. Between the two of you, you must know every farmer and every possible field location that Mack could have used.”
Harold flushed. “I have made a point, during my long career, to get to know every farmer on this island whenever possible. As far as I know, no one made their land available to Mack for an excavation in the last year or more. William, do you have any thoughts on the subject?”
William Corlett looked up from his notes and frowned. “I’m still really new to archeology, but, as Dan points out, I grew up here and I have family scattered just about everywhere from the Point of Ayre to Port Erin. Last night was the first I’d heard about Mack doing any digging on the island. I called a few people I know this morning and no one seems to have any idea where he might have been excavating.”
“Are you suggesting that he fabricated his finds?” Dan demanded aggressively.
William flushed. “I’m not suggesting anything,” he said defensively. “I’m just trying to answer the question. As yet, and it has only been what, less than twenty-four hours since Mack spoke, I haven’t had any luck in finding the farmer that Mack claims called him and invited him to excavate his field. I’m sure Harold has been doing his fair share of contacting people as well, but obviously he hasn’t found the right person yet, either.”
“I have indeed, been making phone calls,” Harold replied. “And I’ve met with the same results that young William discussed. No one will admit to being the farmer in question and no one seems to have heard anything about any archeological sites being dug in the past year. Obviously, farms and parcels of land are being sold all the time and, equally obviously, I haven’t had a chance to talk to everyone I know. At this point it is impossible to draw any conclusions. As with Mack’s death and, um, the missing slides, I must suggest that we need to rely on the police to sort everything out. Now I think we need to move on to another topic.”
“Why would Dr. Dickson fabricate such a thing?” Dan threw out, obviously not ready to accept a change of subject just yet.
“As I said,” Harold replied testily, “we don’t know that he did. At this point, anything is possible.”
“If he did make it all up, he couldn’t possibly have expected to get away with it,” Paul interjected from his seat next to Bessie. “Harold is an expert on this island and I know a thing or two about Roman remains. Mack knew that I was coming; we talked about it last week on the phone. There’s no way he would risk his career with made-up evidence. Whatever is going on, I have to believe that Mack found exactly what he claimed he’d found.”
“Well, at least someone has faith in the man,” Harold muttered. “If he hadn’t been so secretive, maybe we’d have more answers.”
“He always wanted to surprise everyone with his big announcements.” Bessie wasn’t sure why she felt the need to defend the man, but she spoke up on his behalf. “It was all just part of Mack being Mack. I knew the man for many years and I never saw him at a conference when he didn’t have some important bit of new research to announce. Admittedly, this one was the biggest of them all, but he loved surprising his audience and he enjoyed feeling like he’d done something really amazing.”
“Do you think that’s what got him killed?” Dan demanded of Bessie from where he was still standing in the audience.
“I’ve no idea,” Bessie said, slightly flustered by the sudden question. “As far as I know at this point, Mack’s death was an unfortunate accident.”
“And yet, you seem to have a knack for stumbling over murders, don’t you, Aunt Bessie?” Dan smiled at her. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you for months about all the dead bodies that seem to be stacking up around you. You never return my phone calls.”
“And I certainly won’t after today, either,” Bessie replied sharply. “I’ve had the extreme misfortune to find myself on the periphery of a couple of murder investigations in the last few months,” she admitted. “But that’s hardly relevant to anything that is currently happening.”
“On the contrary,” Dan grinned. “I know Inspector Rockwell in Laxey regards you as a valuable asset to his investigations. Apparently there isn’t anything that happens in Laxey that you don’t know about. Is Inspector Corkill showing you the same courtesy? Is he having long chats with you about the various suspects and using you for the latest skeet?”
Bessie pressed her lips together and counted to ten before she replied carefully. “Inspector
Rockwell is a nice man and a very smart policeman. I do know a lot about happenings in Laxey because I’ve lived there for many many years. I’m sure that Inspector Corkill is also a very smart policeman and I’m more than happy to stay well clear of his investigation. I’m sure there is nothing useful that I could contribute to it.”
“So you’re happy with the idea that it was all just an unfortunate accident?” Dan asked Bessie. “Because that seems to be the line that the police are taking.”
“It isn’t any of my business,” Bessie said sternly.
“Well, it is my business,” Bambi interrupted. “And I’m happy to go on record that I’m not satisfied with the police investigation up to this point.”
“Indeed?” Dan turned eagerly to Bambi. “I know you think it was murder. Where do you think the police have gone wrong?”
Bambi grinned, seemingly pleased to have a chance to air her grievances. “For a start, they won’t listen to me,” she replied. “I keep telling Inspector Corkill that it was murder and giving him all my reasons why I’m so certain that it was, but he just pats me on the arm and says that they’ll investigate. But so far they don’t seem to have done a whole lot of that. I’m sure I’ve found out more than they have, just from chatting with people.”
“What have you found out?” Dan asked, scribbling excitedly in a notebook.
“I’ve found out that Harold was furious that Mack took his place as the first speaker at the conference and that Mack’s findings just might mean that Harold loses his job.”
“That isn’t true,” Harold exploded. “My job is perfectly safe and secure, thank you very much.”
“But Mack’s findings weren’t good for you professionally,” Paul suggested. “Surely you can’t deny that.”
Harold sighed. “Mack’s findings were like a smack in the face,” he said sadly. “Both personally and professionally. I thought I had a good working relationship with the men and women who own the farms around the island. The thought that one of them went to Mack instead of me would have been heartbreaking, even if all Mack found was a pile of nineteenth-century rubbish. That he found evidence of a Roman settlement was devastating.” Harold took off his glasses and rubbed a hand over his face. “And yes, it will have repercussions in my professional life. Only time will tell how bad those will be.”
Aunt Bessie Considers Page 10
