Old Bones

by Aaron Elkins

  "I deduced it from the simple fact that these bones belonged to the real Guillaume. Therefore, nobody else could be him, no matter how many people recognized him or think they recognized him. He’s been down in that cellar for almost fifty years. At least that’s the way it looks to me," he added circumspectly, mindful that less than twenty-four hours ago he’d been telling them the bones were Alain’s. "John, do you remember what Loti said to us?"

  The ends of Joly’s mouth moved slightly down. He was not pleased to hear that they had been interviewing the doctor.

  "Not really," John said. "I got the bonjour pretty good, and I got the au revoir, but I didn’t get too much in between."

  "He said Guillaume had rickets."

  "Yeah, that’s right; you told me." His eyes widened. "This skeleton’s got rickets?"

  "It sure as hell does. The leg bones show torsion, bowing, shortening—not extreme, but enough. That’s why the class came up with such a low height estimate, and it’s what messed them up on race. It all adds up to rickets."

  And, he was too embarrassed to mention, so did the beading on the ribs that he’d noticed days ago and

  promptly forgotten. Not prayer beads at all. The "rickety rosary" was what old pathology texts called it, and it should have been a giveaway. But with rickets being so uncommon for the last fifty years, and with this particular case being relatively mild, and with his reference books back in Port Angeles…Given time he could probably come up with a dozen excuses, but the simple fact was that he’d missed it.

  "Doc," John said. "Am I wrong, or don’t you get rickets from malnutrition? Why would a rich guy like Guillaume have it?"

  "It comes from a lack of vitamin D in kids. It throws off bone metabolism. But people didn’t even know what vitamins were when he was born, and plenty of rich kids got it."

  Joly had lit his cigarette and come to the table to stare accusingly down at the bones. "Why would a case of rickets prove so conclusively that this is Guillaume? As you said, other people have had it."

  "But not any other du Rochers, according to Loti. And this is a du Rocher, all right; the sternal foramen, the skeletal proportions—Who else could it possibly be?"

  "I believe the same question was asked of me yesterday," Joly observed drily. "At that time the correct answer was Alain du Rocher."

  "Well, I was wrong," Gideon admitted again. "I was going with the information I had at the time."

  Joly merely looked at him.

  "You get new data, you have to modify your hypotheses," John contributed sagely from his chair.

  "That’s about the size of it," Gideon smiled. "Look, maybe it can be verified. The teeth have had some work done on them. Maybe there are some dental records around."

  "After all this time?" Joly said. "I doubt it." He frowned, stroking his cheek, still looking penetratingly down at the bones, as if waiting for them to explain themselves. "All right, let’s say you’re right—"

  "You’re wearing him down, Doc," John said.

  "Very probably," Joly conceded. He turned to face Gideon through a veil of blue smoke. "If so, it raises a good many new questions. Who killed him? Why? How was it possible to keep it secret all this time? Is there a connection to Claude’s murder?"

  "I’ve got a good one too," John said. "If that stuff on the table is what’s left of Guillaume du Rocher…"

  "Yes?" Joly said, turning.

  "…then just who the hell was it who drowned in the bay last week?"

  UNDER self-imposed and mutually agreeable rules John and Gideon gave themselves a break from the proliferating mysteries of Rochebonne and didn’t discuss them during most of the drive to Mont St. Michel. But when they stopped for gas at an Elf Station near St. Georges de Grehaigne, John could no longer restrain himself.

  "Doc, I’ve been thinking about it," he said, turning intently towards Gideon, his palms on his thighs and his elbows akimbo. "I don’t think it makes any sense. How could anybody get away with it? It’s impossible."

  "What’s impossible about it?"

  "Well, what are you saying? That after Guillaume died somebody imitated him for the next fifty years or so and fooled everyone who knew him? It can’t be done."

  "Why not? Remember, everybody thought he went off to join the Resistance in 1942. When he showed up again—that is, when the fake Guillaume showed up—"

  "Come on, admit it. Listen to what you’re saying. Does this sound like real life?"

  "—nobody had seen the real one for two solid years."

  "Doc, Doc, you’ve been watching too much TV. I’m telling you it can’t be done; not really. You can’t fool a guy’s family, his friends…There are too many little things you can’t imitate exactly—his expressions, the way he smiles, the way he walks, and moves, and even stands; the little bits of trivia he knows—"

  "Even," Gideon said, "if the new Guillaume’s face was so scarred you’d never be able to recognize it? Even with a damaged larynx that changed his voice to a whisper? Even if most of his bones had been pinned back together with 1944 techniques so he walked, and moved, and stood differently? Even if he turned reclusive and hardly talked to anyone any more? Even if he’d already lived at Rochebonne so he knew the routine?"

  "Yeah, well, that’s a point—but are you telling me his own doctor wouldn’t know him?"

  "Loti never saw him until they brought him into the hospital in 1944."

  "What about the rickets?"

  "What about the rickets?"

  "Well, Loti knew Guillaume had rickets as a kid. Couldn’t he see the new Guillaume didn’t have it?"

  "John, after the crushing this guy’s bones went through, no doctor in the world would have spotted a mild case of rickets unless he did a microscopic analysis of the bone tissue. And why would Loti do that?"

  "Yeah, but…" John shook his head with frustration. "His handwriting, what about his handwriting? There must have been things around that he signed before. You’re telling me that no one ever noticed the difference in—" He stopped and fell back against the seat. "You’re going to say that the paralyzed arm was the one he used to write with before the war. Aren’t you?"

  "I don’t know, but I’ll give you odds it was."

  As Gideon paid the bill and drove back out onto the N176, John watched him thoughtfully. "You’re really starting to believe this stuff, aren’t you?"

  "God help me," Gideon said, "I think I am."

  EIGHTEEN

  MONT St. Michel. Everyone has seen pictures of the towering, medieval pyramid rising on its rocky island out of the sea, but no one can help being astounded at first sight of the real thing. It’s like the Grand Canyon; you can look at photographs of it all your life, but the first time you stand on the rim looking down into it the words that jump to your lips are, "My God, I didn’t know it looked like that!"

  "Jesus H. Christ," John said, "I didn’t know it looked like that!"

  They had pulled the car to the side of the road to stare at it from half a mile away at the foot of the long causeway that connects it to the nondescript town of Pontorson. It was a surprise to Gideon too. He’d been prepared for its size, for its stark beauty, for the way it twisted and rambled upwards, moving higgledy-piggledy through time: at the base, crenellated ramparts dating back to the Hundred Years’ War; in the center a colorful jumble of cramped stone houses form the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries; and finally, at the top, the great abbey itself, its eighth-century core altered and enlarged a hundred times in a thousand years, yet strangely balanced and all of a piece.

  What the pictures hadn’t prepared him for was its raw, gray vigor. Despite the stone traceries, the spires, the arches, Mont St. Michel was rudely masculine; hard, plain, virile. The towers didn’t soar, they surged and thrusted; the whole crowded rock was like a living animal, bunched, powerful, restlessly alert.

  "So where’s this shrine of French gastronomy?" asked John, who never stayed awed very long. "Even an omelet’s starting to sound good."

&nbs
p; But Mère Poularde was closed until the season officially opened on April 1. So were most of the other restaurants on the Grand Rue. They worked their way up the steep, narrow street, growing increasingly pessimistic about the prospects for lunch. "We just can’t come to a place like this and eat in one of these crummy fast-food places," Gideon said, referring to the tiny shops where chilled-looking vendors sold lukewarm pizza slices and stale-looking sandwiches wrapped in plastic.

  "I can," John said, then stopped abruptly. "Hey, I just thought of something." He chirped with laughter. "Wow."

  "What?"

  "Well, Guillaume’s will isn’t worth a damn. Not if you’re right about those bones."

  Gideon stared at him. As obvious as it was, it hadn’t occurred to him. "Of course! It wasn’t really Guillaume who made it out, was it? Whoever it was, he didn’t have any right to give Guillaume’s property away."

  "That’s the way I see it," John said, starting to walk again. "This gets weirder by the minute. All those people who got something in the will—they’re not entitled to it. Boy, there’s another great reason for murder right there."

  "How do you mean? How would they benefit from killing him?"

  "Not him, you."

  "Oh," Gideon said. "Me."

  He shook his head wearily. There were too many motives; that was the problem, just as Joly had said, and they kept coming up with new ones. If the invalid will really was behind everything in some way—and that made considerable sense—then any of the heirs who knew Guillaume hadn’t really been Guillaume might well have wanted Gideon dead. But did any of them know? And even if they did, where did Claude come into it? Why kill him? Not because he’d threatened to challenge the will, certainly; Bonfante had made it clear that he couldn’t have brought it off.

  Was is possible that Claude knew about Guillaume’s murder in 1942 and someone killed him to keep him quite? Not very likely. If he’d known he’d have told a long time ago, instead of fuming for forty years over a will he knew to be fraudulent.

  And what about the pretend-Guillaume, with only a year to live? Assuming he was murdered (which even Gideon was beginning to have doubts about), who would benefit in any important way by moving up his death a few months?

  No, there was something more than the will involved; more than vengeful hatred of Claude too. Something they were all missing, something at the heart of it that would make everything fall into place. That it had to do in some way with the dark affairs in the cellar of Rochebonne in 1942 he had little doubt. But what, exactly?

  "Have you noticed," he muttered to John, "that the more we figure out, the less we seem to know?"

  At this point, happily, they came upon a sight that warmed them both: an open restaurant, a mellowed sixteenth-century inn with a hanging, filigreed metal sign over the door. Le Mouton Blanc, it said, and underneath, appropriately, was a picture of a contented-looking white sheep. It was the kind of place about which John might have had doubts, but as they approached it, two people came out, and the aroma of pommes frites that wafted out after them was more than enough to convince him.

  The combination of smells inside was even better, notwithstanding the usual fug of cigarette smoke: steamed seafood, fried potatoes, roasted meat. It was probably just the way it smelled in 1600, Gideon thought with pleasure, except, of course, for the tobacco, which wouldn’t have arrived from North America for another few decades. It was about half-full, and at a table near the back were Ray and Claire, with Sophie and Ben Butts.

  "Come join us!" Ben shouted as soon as they walked in.

  They threaded their way between the tables. "I don’t know; you look pretty crowded already," Gideon said with a smile.

  "Oh, no, please, we can easily make room," Ray said, looking glad to see them, and Claire murmured something similar.

  "Sure," Ben said. "Unless you’re rubbin’ elbows, eatin’s just stokin’."

  "And who said that?" Sophie asked.

  "I believe it was my cousin Bobby Will."

  "I thought your cousin was Billy Rob."

  Ben looked thoughtfully at her. "No, Billy Rob’s my uncle on my mother’s side; married to Clara Bea. Bobby Will’s my cousin on my father’s side—Willie Bob’s boy."

  Amid general laughter, a couple of chairs were taken from nearby tables and Gideon and John squeezed in. No one had ordered food yet, but they were almost through a bottle of white wine, and a new bottle with two more glasses was brought. Sélection de l’Hôtel, Vin de Table, the modest label said, but it turned out to be a better-thanordinary Chablis.

  Gideon lifted his glass in a salute. "So," he said, "what brings you to Mont St. Michel?"

  He felt at ease with these four. Of all the people at Rochebonne they were the ones he trusted most: Ray, sweet-tempered and earnest, and altogether above suspicion; gentle Claire Fougeray, thin and pallid, but with a ruddy heat in her cheeks that he guessed was due less to the wine than to Ray’s proximity; Sophie Butts, frank and solid; Ben, with his easy way of meandering between homespun adages and lawyerly good sense. If one of them turned out to be a murderer, he was going to be awfully annoyed. And surprised.

  It was Ben who answered. "We came down to pick up Guillaume’s car and take it back. Seemed like a good excuse for us all to get out of the house for a while, take a train ride, see the Mont before we left." Smiling, he raised his glass to toast the others.

  "Are you taking off?" John asked. "I thought Joly wanted you to stay."

  "Can’t," Ben said. "There are big things on the menu at Southwest Electroplating. Two-million-dollar comparable-worth suit coming up. Anyway, Joly told us from the start we could go after tomorrow. He knows where to find us if he needs us."

  "Ben and I are catching a ten o’clock flight from Paris tomorrow night," Sophie said. "These two will be leaving the next morning, by train from Dinan."

  Gideon looked with interest at Ray and Claire. "You’re going together?"

  "They certainly are," Sophie said happily.

  "Oh," said Ray, and cleared his throat. "Well."

  "Raymond is being kind enough to accompany maman and me to Rennes," Claire explained primly, looking down at her glass. "After that he will be our guest for a few days."

  "Well, you know, I don’t have to be back at Northern Cal until next week," Ray said, "so I thought…you know." He tugged at the ends of his bowtie and shone with inarticulate happiness.

  Sophie took a healthy swallow of wine and put down her glass. "I don’t know about anyone else, but I could eat a horse. Claire, dear, why don’t you order for us? Is that all right with everyone?"

  That was fine with everyone, and Claire, who seemed in her retiring way to be pleased with a role in the limelight, consulted at length with the waiter before settling on a three-course meal of traditional Norman cuisine. By the time the ordering was done, most of the new bottle of wine had been drunk and the level of conviviality was high. There was a blaze in the fireplace, and outside a passing rain had left the cobblestones of the Grand Rue gleaming, making it easy for Gideon to enjoy the pleasant illusion of being a sixteenth-century traveler, warmly ensconced in a fine inn among companionable comrades.

  "I tell you, kids," Ben said, playfully addressing Ray and Claire, "if you’re not going to ask him, I will."

  "Oh, Uncle," Claire murmured with her eyes down, then turned a little rosier. Blushing looked good on her, Gideon decided.

  "All right, then, I will," Ben declared. "We have a technical question for you, Professor. Genetically speaking, just how closely related are these kids? The reason they want to know—"

  "Ben," Sophie said, "I think Gideon can figure out why they want to know."

  "I could make a pretty good guess," Gideon said. "What are you two anyway, cousins?"

  "It’s precisely that which we can’t determine," Ray said with donnish perplexity. "We know we’re not first cousins at any rate, but after that it gets extraordinarily confusing."

  "I’ll tell you what," Gideon said. "Why
don’t you draw up a family tree for a few generations, showing who begat who—"

  "Whom," murmured Ray automatically, then winced. "Sorry, force of habit."

  "—and I’ll try and work out the genetic relationships from that."

  This was well received, and they set to reconstructing the du Rocher genealogy, with Ben drawing it step-by-step on the back of a paper placemat. In the meantime, the first course arrived: fruits de mer variés, carried to the table on three broad metal platters, arranged as identically and as prettily as a set of postcards. Three big crayfish and four prawns alternating in a circle in the center, a neat mound of small, salty sea snails to be poked out of their shells with pins that came embedded in a cork, and a pile of perhaps a hundred tiny gray shrimp that Claire showed them how to eat. One held the head between thumb and forefinger, then briskly snapped off the tail with the other hand, revealing a nubbin of pale meat that had almost no flavor but nevertheless bathed the palate in a faint, luscious essence of the ocean itself.

  It was slow eating, what with pins and fingers, so that John and Gideon were able to entertain themselves contentedly while the others haggled good-humoredly over the more obscure corners of the family’s history. Then, as two black kettles of moules marinière were put on the table, the neatly printed chart was handed to Gideon, who got out a pen of his own and started to work while he ate.

  By the time the mussels had been reduced to shining, blue-black heaps of empty shells, and the last of the shallot-flavored broth soaked up with sliced baguettes, he announced his findings. "You’re fifth cousins."

  "What does that mean for…for children?" Claire asked, then looked down and blushed again.

  Gideon smiled at her. It was nice to know there were still women like Claire left. He liked the idea of Claire and Ray as a team; there weren’t too many Ray Schaefers around either.

  "It means," he said, "that you two are separated by eleven degrees of consanguinity—"

  "Aren’t you glad you asked?" John said.