Murder in the Queen's Armes Read online

  Squeezed around the table were five or six folding metal chairs, and on one of them, near an electric heater, sat Nate Marcus. Frawley’s warning notwithstanding, he looked very much like himself: small and wiry, intense and sarcastic. He was a man of extraordinary hirsuteness. Black and vigorous, his hair always seemed to be in the process of

  taking him over, gleaming blue-black and gritty on his spare cheeks, dipping low on his forehead in a thick, simian wedge, meeting above his eyes in a woolly, Cyclopean eyebrow that sent fuzzy feelers halfway down his nose. In the V of his open collar a glossy tuft sprouted like a nest of tangled wires.

  I know just what he’s going to say, Gideon thought, and exactly how he’s going to say it. Well, look who’s here, he’ll say in that mocking, flip New York accent he’d never lost, the famous skeleton detective.

  "Look who’s here," Nate said flatly. "What a terrific surprise."

  "Hi, Nate. It’s nice to see you."

  "Sure." Nate folded his arms. "Have a seat. Have some coffee."

  "Thanks," Gideon said, unsure of himself, feeling as if he were accepting not a cup of coffee but a challenge.

  Frawley scuttled to a corner. "I’ll take care of the coffee," he said, heavily jocose. "That’s an assistant director’s primary responsibility." He busied himself with the coffee things that are as omnipresent as calipers or acetone in archaeology workrooms all over the world.

  Nate stared at Gideon, his eyes inexpressive. "Okay, Gid, what do you want?"

  Even for Nate this was pretty brusque, and there was an increasing prickle of irritation at the back of Gideon’s neck. Or was he being unduly sensitive? He had been irritated by Leon; he hadn’t liked Sandra; he found Frawley odious; and now Nate seemed even ruder than usual. Maybe Gideon was just having one of his misanthropic days and it was all in his mind. On the other hand, he reassured himself charitably, he hadn’t disliked Barry, had he? No, it wasn’t his perception; there was something uneasy, something off-key in the atmosphere of Stonebarrow Fell.

  "I don’t want anything," he said evenly. "I was traveling

  in the area with my wife, so I thought I’d say hello. And Abe Goldstein wanted me to give you his best."

  There was a ponderous silence while Frawley brought back three mugs of coffee clutched insecurely in his white hands. He set them carefully on the table. "There we go. See, even assistant directors are good for something." He sat on Nate’s other side, around the corner of the table.

  Nate continued to glower at Gideon. "You thought you’d drop in," he finally said.

  "Yes."

  When Nate just kept staring at him with a crooked, unfunny smirk on his face, Gideon stood up, puzzled and angry. He had paid his duty call and had no wish to be glared at by a contentious and hostile colleague who might once have been a friend, but who clearly had no use for him at the moment.

  "You don’t have anything to do with the inquiry?" Nate said sharply as Gideon pushed his chair back. "Is that what you’re telling me?"

  "The what?"

  "The Stonebarrow Fell inquiry," Frawley said.

  Gideon shook his head. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

  "No?" Nate looked at him quizzically. "Okay, have a read." He reached to the shelf behind him, got a newspaper, and tossed it onto the table in front of Gideon, who dropped back into his chair. It was the previous day’s West Dorset Times, and the headline ran across the two leftmost columns.

  CRISES MOUNT AT STONEBARROW FELL

  Professor Nathan G. Marcus, the outspoken and controversial director of the archaeological excavation at Stonebarrow Fell (Charmouth) is set for his most critical test thus far.

  The Times has learned that the Wessex Antiquarian Society (WAS) and the New York-based Horizon Foundation for Anthropological Research, which cosponsor the expedition, will shortly conduct a joint inquiry, to be held in Charmouth, into charges against Professor Marcus of maladministration and unprofessional behavior. The charges stem from a confidential letter of complaint sent by the WAS to the Horizon Foundation.

  The secret letter, of which the Times has managed to obtain a copy, protests Professor Marcus’s "animadversions upon the Society in particular and English archaeology in general." It also alleges that "his unsubstantiated and incredible claims regarding a Mycenaean settlement of southern England discredit all concerned and tarnish the reputation of archaeology itself." Further, the unprecedented letter expresses "gave reservations about Professor Marcus’s competence and objectivity."

  Professor Marcus, in a statement to the Times, said that his claims are consistent with the facts, and that "the Wessex Antiquarian Society has been out to get me from Day One…They won’t admit the obvious truth even when the d–n thing stares them in the face, just because an American came up with it. Look, I’m glad they’ve got a lot of practice eating their own words, because I’m going to dump a big plateful right in front of them."

  These charges and countercharges fly amidst growing rumours of an astonishing and sensational new discovery at Stonebarrow Fell; one that will lend credence to Professor Marcus’s unorthodox theories. When queried about these rumors, the American scholar would only smile.

  The expected arrival on the scene of Professor Gideon P. Oliver, an internationally known authority on skeletal analysis and reconstruction, is believed by informed sources to suggest that the alleged new discovery consists of one or more human skeletons. Professor Oliver, it is believed, will play a significant role in the inquiry into his countryman’s behaviour.

  Gideon stared at the last paragraph a second time, then dropped the paper and looked up.

  "How in the hell did I get involved? How could the… the…" He glanced at the masthead. "…the West Dorset Times even know I was coming? Nobody knew we were going to Charmouth."

  This was virtually true. Gideon had talked about it with his old friend and teacher Abe Goldstein, but Abe was living in quiet retirement in Sequim, Washington, six thousand miles away. No one else could possibly know. They had not even made reservations at a Charmouth hotel, trusting instead to plentiful vacancies in the off-season.

  "I’ll be damned," he said. "Nate, I give you my word I don’t have anything to do with any inquiry. I didn’t even know there was one."

  Again there was a burdensome silence. Against the one small window an unseasonable bluebottle fly buzzed and thumped sluggishly. Nate, who had been studying Gideon closely all the time he’d been reading, appeared to come to an abrupt decision.

  "Okay, okay, I believe you. I’m sorry, pal, maybe I’m getting paranoid." He toyed with the old dagger blade, picking at the rough, green patina with thin, hairy fingers. "That damn WAS. They’ll do anything to make me look bad. I’ll bet anything they’re behind it."

  Paranoid, Frawley had said, and now Nate had said it too. Gideon began to wonder if there wasn’t something to it. He glanced at Frawley and was met with the sort of knowing look that is generally said to be "fraught with meaning."

  "Nate," Gideon said, "you know the WAS is a serious group of archaeologists. I don’t think—"

  "Don’t give me that bullshit. Dammit, Gideon, I’ve got them so shook up with what I’m finding here they’d do anything to get me canned—so they can have all the credit for good old England. Bastards!" His hand closed around the blade, and for a second Gideon thought he was going to ram the fragile implement into the table, but he only gripped it a moment and tossed it down. "Hell, what am I getting so excited about? It’s the same old story." He grinned suddenly, his teeth very white against his dark face, and tapped the newspaper. "I gave ’em as good as I got, though, huh?"

  "Yes, it’s great to see you out there winning friends for America."

  Nate laughed, throwing back his head and barking at the ceiling. It was too loud and it went on too long, and in his throat the arteries stood out like fat worms. Again Gideon found Frawley’s doleful eyes fixed meaningfully on him.

  Nate leaned over and slapped Gideon’s arm. "Let
me tell you, pal, I’m really glad you’re not with them. I’d hate to think you were on their side."

  Gideon returned his smile but was obscurely troubled. Were there sides? Whose side was he on? Nate’s theory was cockeyed and deserved refutation, no question about that, but the man had once been close to him, and Gideon couldn’t help being concerned. Abe Goldstein had been right, as usual; Nate Marcus was in need of being kept out of trouble.

  "Nate," Gideon said softly, wishing that the mournfully attentive Frawley would go away, "this whole Mycenaean business…. Are you sure you’re not getting yourself out on a limb? An inquiry by Horizon—that’s serious stuff; it could affect your whole career."

  "Everything I said is true," Nate said fervently. "Listen, I can prove the Mycenaeans brought the Bronze Age to England." He stared at Gideon, then turned suddenly to Frawley. "Right?"

  Frawley was caught raising his mug to his lips. He spluttered and set it down, then drew from one breast

  pocket a metal-stemmed, stubby pipe, from the other a foil tobacco pouch. "Well, yes," he said, "I would certainly say that what we’ve found provides considerable confirmation of your theory, yes." His pouchy eyes lit glancingly on Gideon and then dropped to his pipe, at which he poked assiduously with a paper clip.

  No wonder Nate was getting himself into deep waters. If the rest of his staff was like Frawley, he wasn’t getting any honest feedback or argument.

  "Look, Nate," Gideon said, "I know you’re excited about this, but think about what you’re saying. How can you prove something like that? At best—"

  "All right," Nate snapped, "you don’t need to lecture me." For a moment his hot, black eyes blazed, but the fire went out as quickly as it had come. "Sorry," he said. "I guess I’m a little edgy. You’re right, you’re right. We’re supposed to be scientists; we deal in probabilities, not certainties. But it just seems as if it’s so goddam obvious…." He grasped the edge of the table and leaned forward. "Look, if there was no Mycenaean invasion, how do you account for the sudden introduction of a complex, multi-tiered society with ‘Aegean’ stamped all over it? Tell me that! Where did those incised geometric pottery motifs come from? The faience beads?" He snatched up the bronze dagger again. "This?"

  Gideon spoke as gently as he could. "You know I’m no Bronze Age specialist, Nate. But even I know that the arguments you’re making were laid to rest decades ago. As far as I know, you’re the only modern scholar who still accepts them."

  "And that makes me wrong?"

  "Of course not. Look, you’re the expert, not me. All I’m trying to suggest is that the way you’re going about things has gotten the Horizon Foundation and the Wessex Antiquarian Society on your back, and you might want to be just a little less bellicose. If that inquiry goes against you and they relieve you here, you’ll never get another legitimate dig."

  Nate sighed impatiently, flicking a pottery fragment with the back of his finger. "Listen, you think I don’t know you’re trying to help me? I appreciate it, believe me. But I have to do this my own way. Do you want me to say I don’t believe what I know is true? I know I’m right; Jack knows it; all of us here know it."

  Frawley had continued to probe his pipe noncommittally. Angrily, Gideon rounded on him. "Jack, isn’t there anything you’d like to say about this?"

  Frawley shifted and shook his head, not meeting Gideon’s eyes. "I may have certain, ah, minor points of difference, but what Nate says, ah, makes real sense." The pipe seemed to be ready, and he concentrated on searching for his matches, pocket by pocket.

  It was amazing that Nate, never very kindly disposed toward yes-men, would tolerate Frawley’s sycophancy, let alone encourage it. Or maybe not so strange. Nate had changed. He had, of course, always been intense, frequently ardent, and yet underneath his passion there had always been that healthy, self-mocking sense of humor that kept him on a reasonably even keel. But if it was still there, it hadn’t surfaced so far. Was he so caught up in his strange theory that he didn’t know a yes-man when he saw one— even one as pusillanimous as Frawley?

  "Gid," Nate said, "you know what the Times said— rumors of a sensational new discovery? Well, it’s true. I’ve got proof that nobody can argue with. You’re not going to believe it!" He spoke with mounting excitement, as if he were about to hug himself or rub his hands together. Instead he jumped from his chair to pace restlessly up and down the narrow space behind the table. He’d gotten thinner, Gideon realized. His clothes flapped on him as if they were two sizes too large. This battle he was fighting was eating him up.

  "Just wait," he said. "Wait till that damn inquisition convenes. What a kick in the ass they’re going to get—what a surprise!"

  "Would that be the human skeletal remains the paper mentioned?" Gideon asked.

  "Right." He grinned wolfishly. "Jealous?"

  "Interested. Do you have any physical anthropologists working with you?"

  "No, and if what you mean is that, being an ignorant archaeologist, I might be misinterpreting the skeletal evidence, then come back in two weeks and see for yourself."

  "I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t I look at what you have right now?"

  "Uh-uh, I want it to be a surprise for Horizon."

  "I’ll keep it a surprise; it’s your baby, whatever it is. I promise not to tell anybody what I’ve seen. Look, for one thing, I really am damn curious to see what you have. For another, maybe I could point out some things you missed— it’s my business, you know." And for still another, Gideon thought, maybe I can show you you’re heading for a hell of a debacle, and maybe you’ll listen. For whatever Nate had unearthed—and if he said it was sensational, it probably was—it could hardly confirm a theory that was untenable to begin with.

  Nate had been shaking his head all the time Gideon was speaking. "Nope," he said firmly. "I think we’ll just go ahead and have the official unveiling at the Grand Inquisition."

  It was said with finality, and at that point Gideon gave up. He’d tried to help and been rebuffed. And when it came down to it, it wasn’t his affair. Nate was a grown man, chairman of a department and director of an excavation, and he had more than once shown himself capable of getting out of his own difficulties as well as into them. Besides, Gideon told himself (only a little after the fact), he’d promised Julie to stay out of academic fracases on his honeymoon, and that was a promise he meant to keep—no matter how curious he was about Nate’s mysterious find. He had no idea what sort of game Frawley was playing, but that, too, was Nate’s problem.

  He took his first sip of the tasteless, now-cold coffee and put the mug down. "Okay, Nate, do it the way you want. I wish you well; you know that."

  "Hey, don’t go ‘way mad." Nate, more relaxed now, picked up a piece of pottery, rubbing it thoughtfully with his thumb. "Where are you going to be in two weeks? Still in Charmouth?"

  "No, I’m leaving tomorrow. We thought we’d drive west, spend some time in Wales, see some of Ireland, and then head back to London in a couple of weeks."

  "Well, couldn’t you work it out to stop in Charmouth again on the way back? The inquiry’s November twenty-ninth."

  "I don’t think—"

  "Wait, don’t say no. I’m in trouble, Gid. That inquiry board is dead set against me. They’ve already made up their minds. They’ll find some way to twist—"

  "I don’t buy that, Nate. Horizon and the WAS are objective, knowledgeable—"

  His protest was waved away. "They’re archaeologists, like I am. What do they know about skeletons? Look, man, we could use a good physical anthropologist there; somebody without an ax to grind, someone we all trust— because we sure as hell don’t trust each other."

  Gideon shook his head. "Forget it. The last thing I need is to be on a board of inquiry—into your conduct, no less. No, thanks."

  "Listen, all I’m asking you to do is be there, maybe for an hour, when I show them what I have. You know, just be an expert resource; do your thing, give us your opinion.

  Call i
t the way you see it."

  "Nate, I’m on my honeymoon."

  "Okay, let me put it this way." He looked soberly at Gideon. "I know you think I’m kidding myself, and maybe I am. But I’m not crazy, you know. And what if I’m right? What if the most important Bronze Age find of the century, maybe of any century, is about to pop? I’m asking you to be the first physical anthropologist to look at it. You’d be right there at the grand opening; you’d be the one to do the initial analysis…."

  Gideon sighed, then laughed. What anthropologist could say no to that? Besides, it might give him a final chance to help Nate, to keep him from doing anything more foolish than he’d already done. "Well," he said, "when you put it that way…"

  Nate laughed and reached forward to shake hands. As he did so, a cool draft from behind Gideon rustled the papers on the table.

  "Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you were in conference."

  Nate looked up over Gideon’s shoulder. "No problem, Randy, come on in. Gid, this is Randy Alexander, number-one contender for the world’s perennial-student title."

  Laughing offhandedly, a big, coarsely good-looking man carrying a paper sack came in. He was about thirty-five, only a few years younger than Nate and Gideon, with longish, curling brown hair, a casual, loose-jointed gait, and an air about him of indolent, somewhat studied dissipation.

  "Hiya, Prof. I think I heard of you."