Murder in the Queen's Armes

by Aaron Elkins

  Although he was an archaeologist, he was, like Gideon, an earnest student of Pleistocene man (indeed, if he had other interests, he’d yet to mention them), but the two had never gotten to know one another very well. At anthropological gatherings they usually managed a scholarly, reasonably agreeable conversation of twenty or thirty minutes, which sufficed until the next year’s meeting. But when two Americans meet socially on foreign soil, a different level of cordiality is called for, and Gideon’s heart sank at the prospect of the serious, plodding Arbuckle horning in on his Dorset evenings with Julie. Having a sexy, interesting Englishman around didn’t seem so hot either.

  Nevertheless, Gideon smiled and offered his hand. "What brings you to Charmouth?"

  "Business, naturally," said Paul (naturally), and frowned behind round, rimless spectacles. As many people do, he looked like what he was, with his thick glasses, his rumpled clothes, and his innocuous, vaguely porcine face (Porky-the-pig-like, really). "I don’t know whether you heard, but I’m not at Michigan anymore. I’ve been director of field archaeology for the Horizon Foundation since July. I’ve been running a terrific dig in France, but I’ve had to put it aside and come here on…business."

  He indicated the other man. "And this is Frederick Robyn, secretary of the Wessex Antiquarian Society."

  When they had all sat down facing the fire, the Englishman said, "I wonder if you know why we are both in Charmouth."

  "I suppose you’re here to conduct the Stonebarrow Fell inquiry Thursday."

  Arbuckle looked extremely surprised, Robyn mildly so. It was Robyn who spoke, raising a cool eyebrow. "And how do you happen to know that?"

  "There was an article about it in the Times."

  Robyn’s suavity faltered. "The Times! Good Lord!"

  Gideon laughed in spite of himself. "The West Dorset Times, Mr. Robyn, not the London Times."

  "Still, it’s unfortunate that the press should have it at all. Publicity can do no one any good." He shook his handsome head. "I suppose it was Marcus himself who told them. The man is unable to restrain himself." He looked at Gideon and smiled. "But of course it’s precisely that which has necessitated this entire unhappy process."

  At that point Andy Hinshore scurried in with a sherry for Robyn and a lager for Arbuckle. "Oh, hello Dr. Oliver," he said. "Sorry, I didn’t know you were here. Can I get you something?"

  "A Scotch and soda would be nice, thanks."

  As he left, Arbuckle said to Gideon, "This article on Stonebarrow Fell… what was the gist of it?"

  Gideon had barely begun when Hinshore returned with his drink on a tray. "Perhaps you’d move that thing, sir? I wouldn’t want to knock it off the table, God forbid."

  Gideon looked down at the ammonite he’d absentmindedly placed on the table near his chair, and put it in his pocket. "It’s just a fossil from the beach, Andy."

  Hinshore shook his compact head vigorously. "Oh, no, I know the way you scientists are with your fossils. Indeed I do. Last month I almost put a mug of beer down on one of Professor Arbuckle’s, and I thought he was going to skin me alive." Chuckling, he put the glass in front of Gideon.

  Paul Arbuckle was at times the most literal-minded of men. "Oh," he said, with a wondering, mildly aggrieved air, "I don’t think I was going to skin you alive."

  "Well," Hinshore said affably, "you could have fooled me."

  "You were here last month, Paul?" Gideon asked. "Has this thing with Nate been going on as long as that?"

  "Oh, it had nothing to do with the inquiry; just a routine field audit. I visit all our sites quarterly."

  "I hadn’t realized you’d been here before, either," Robyn said with interest. "How did things look to you then?"

  "Everything was fine. Marcus hadn’t made any of his strange statements yet—or only a few—and the dig itself was absolutely ship-shape. You know what a fine technician he is."

  "More’s the pity," Robyn said absently, his eyes on the fire blazing in a metal box in the grand but inefficient Tudor fireplace of vaulted stone. Gideon stole a look at his watch. Not that he was worried, but where the hell was Julie anyway?

  Hinshore had remained in the room, listening with open interest. "Oh!" he said suddenly, producing a newspaper from under his arm. "I heard you ask about the Times article on Stonebarrow Fell. I keep copies of the paper in the sitting room." He held out the folded paper.

  Robyn stretched out an elegant hand. "Thank you. And…Andy, is it?…I don’t think we need anything else."

  "Oh—" Hinshore said, his sallow cheeks flushing. "Yes, excuse me. Sorry."

  When he had left, Robyn spread the newspaper on the table before him, and he and Arbuckle leaned over it. Robyn was the faster reader of the two, and while he waited for his colleague to finish, he lit a cigarette and puffed languidly, gazing thoughtfully into the fire.

  When Arbuckle finally finished, he looked up slowly. "Where did they get all that information? How could they find out about the letter?"

  "The irrepressible Professor Marcus, I suspect," Robyn said, "although how he found out I haven’t the foggiest notion. In any case, the article is certainly accurate enough, isn’t it?"

  "Not exactly," Gideon said, putting down his glass. "It implied that I was here as part of your inquiry, and I’m not."

  Robyn tapped his cigarette into an ashtray. "I meant as far as the important aspects are concerned."

  Gideon, not notably slow to take offense when warranted, wondered if it were warranted now. He looked up sharply, but Robyn’s expression was coolly benign.

  "Of course," the Englishman went on, "knowing you were coming, they would naturally assume your visit was connected to our inquiry. Don’t you think so?"

  "I suppose so." Gideon sipped his Scotch. "The question is, how did they know I was coming at all? I barely knew myself."

  "I’m sure I have no idea."

  "Well, I sure didn’t know you were coming," Arbuckle said. He placed his glass on the table and looked doubtfully at Gideon. "Why are you here?"

  Gideon shook his head and laughed. "Everybody’s suspicious of me. Honestly, it’s not very mysterious. Mostly because I’m trying to take a peaceful, inconspicuous English honeymoon. As for Stonebarrow Fell, I’d heard that Nate was having difficulties, and I thought I might lend a little moral support, so I went up to see him."

  "A sympathetic compatriot in a strange land?" Robyn asked. "That sort of thing?"

  "That’s about it. And when I was there, Nate asked me if I’d come back when he takes the wraps off that find of his. I’d like to do that, if it’s all right with you. I might be of some help."

  Gideon caught a small negative shake of Robyn’s head and saw him form the words "Well, I…," but Arbuckle spoke up more loudly.

  "I think that’d be great," he said sincerely. "You’re an old friend of his, aren’t you? Maybe you could talk some sense into him. Don’t you think so, Frederick?"

  "Yes," said Robyn, deciding after all not to demur, "I suppose so."

  "I’ve already tried to talk some sense into him," Gideon said, "I wasn’t too successful."

  "But it isn’t too late," Arbuckle said, leaning forward with his typical earnest gravity. "Gideon, this isn’t an inquiry in the usual sense. No one’s disputing any facts. It’s my responsibility, and Frederick’s, to simply talk with Marcus and get him to…well, to grow up and start acting like the first-rate professional he is." He pulled at his beer, set it down, and frowned with myopic ardor. "However, if he won’t do that, we will certainly relieve him and close down the dig. But I just can’t believe it’ll come to that!"

  "Is that true, Paul? The outcome’s still open?"

  It was Robyn who answered. "My dear Oliver," he said lighting another cigarette, "Arbuckle and I are not a couple of hit men hired to perform a character assassination. We represent, as you well know, two of the most prestigious of archaeological research organizations. Both of us, I should add, were firm supporters, in the face of some rather severe oppos
ition, of Professor Marcus’s original application for permission and funding."

  He paused to taste his sherry, then pressed his lips together, holding the glass to his temple, as if listening to it. "Quite nice," he said, "although as olorosos go, perhaps the least bit thin."

  Gideon doubted that he could taste anything at all. The cigarette in his other hand was his third one.

  "But," Robyn went on at his own leisurely pace, "how can we ignore the bizarre nature of his recent statements?…Well, you saw what was attributed to him in the newspaper. There are, I assure you, other even more outrageous and offensive examples." He crossed one leg over the other, first arranging an already impeccable trouser crease. "Nevertheless, I think I can speak for both of us in saying we would consider our mission successful if the man would simply give us his promise to restrain his outbursts and stick to the business of pursuing the excavation—which I must admit he does very well. Wouldn’t you agree with all that, Arbuckle?"

  "What?" Arbuckle asked with a start. He had been staring into the flames. "Sorry, I guess I was thinking about my own dig."

  Gideon smiled. When Paul was involved in research, his one-track mind never strayed very far from it.

  "Got something interesting going in France?" Gideon asked.

  "I do. I sure do." He thrust his stocky body forward, twisting his glass in stubby fingers. All at once, he was more alert, more alive, "It’s in Burgundy, near Dijon— Gideon, it’s been fluorine-dated at 220,000 b.c.—Middle Pleistocene! Just think, it’s as old as Swanscombe or Stein-hem! We’ve got Acheulian handaxes, cleavers… What are you laughing at?"

  "You," Gideon said, "It’s the first time this afternoon I’ve seen you really come alive. Poor Paul; there you are in the middle of a great dig, with the chance to learn something about the earliest Homo sapiens, and you have to break it off to get involved in a minor squabble over the Bronze Age."

  "Really," Robyn murmured in the manner of an actor delivering an aside, "I’d hardly call it a minor squabble."

  Arbuckle looked at Gideon, but it was hard to tell what he was thinking. The firelight bouncing opaquely off his thick glasses made his never-too-mobile face look more wooden than ever. Finally he laughed, something he didn’t do often.

  "You’re right. Who cares about the Bronze Age? All I want to do is get this thing over with and get back to Dijon. And don’t tell me you wouldn’t feel just the same."

  "I would," Gideon said, meaning it.

  "Now, see here," said Robyn. "I feel I must stand up on behalf of the Bronze Age. For myself, I’d rather deal with jeweled daggers and filigreed breastplates, and pendants of Baltic amber—all neatly tucked away for me in barrows—than go grubbing in muddy riverbeds for vulgar rock choppers and gnawed elephant bones left by coarse and unhygienic man-apes."

  Gideon was about to reply when he heard the front door of the hotel open and close, and then the welcome sound of Julie’s footsteps in the entry hall. (When had he learned to recognize them?) He half rose, but Robyn was even quicker, springing lightly to his feet.

  "Ah, my dear Mrs. Oliver," he said, oozing urbanity, "you are indeed a welcome sight. We’ve been discussing the most dreary sorts of things for far too long. Now I’d like to propose that you and Professor Oliver join us for dinner. I know a perfectly delightful old coaching inn at Honiton."

  He smiled engagingly, the lines around his eyes folding into a fan of handsome crinkles. "I won’t take no for an answer."

  SIX

  THE restaurant was as charming as Robyn had promised, and they finished two bottles of wine, so the four of them passed a reasonably pleasant evening, during which the subject of Stonebarrow Fell never arose. Robyn was witty and gallant, and Paul made polite, vague conversation. He even managed to come out of his shell in his own blinking, resolute fashion when Robyn said that since the inquiry wasn’t until Thursday, why didn’t he and Arbuckle motor to Swanscombe the next day and have a look at the famous site where England’s oldest human remains had been discovered fifty years before?

  When they got back to the hotel, Arbuckle was, in fact, loosened up enough to suggest they have after-dinner drinks in the lounge, where Hinshore had kept the fire going for them. Gideon declined, and he and Julie went up to their room, leaving the two men sprawled (Robyn even managed to sprawl elegantly) in the big chairs, each with a brandy snifter at his elbow.

  "Whew!" Julie sighed the moment they’d shut the door. She flung herself into his arms, driving him back against the wall with a thump. "I love you," she said, and pulled his face down to kiss him firmly on the lips. "You neat, attractive man!" She put her head against his shoulder and hugged him hard.

  "Hey," he said, delighted. "What’s all this about?"

  "I haven’t had you alone almost all day! Do you realize this is the first time that’s happened since we’ve been married?"

  "Well, the magic has to end sometime," he said lightly, but he hadn’t liked it either. He liked this very much better. He put his lips to her hair, fresh-smelling despite Robyn’s endless smoking.

  Julie slipped her arms under his sport coat and pressed her palms flat against his back, pulling him against her. He could feel how warm her hands were through the thin cloth of his shirt. She was wearing a blouse with a wide, square-cut neckline, and he placed his hands gently along her throat. Under the heavy, dark hair, the nape of her neck was lusciously long and curved. And naked. He let his fingers move to her shoulders under the border of the blouse and felt her flesh respond to his touch.

  "Besides, I was worried about you," she murmured, scarcely audible against the tweed of his jacket. "I kept worrying that you’d go climbing on those stupid cliffs and fall off. Or get run over by a car on your way back because you’re absentminded and you’d forget they drive on the other side of the street. Isn’t that silly?"

  "Yes," he said. "Ridiculous." He kissed her hair again and stroked the firm, soft flesh of her shoulders.

  "And then," she said, her cheek still against him, "when we were finally able to have dinner together, we had to spend it with those boring people." She began to finger the buttons of his shirt.

  "Boring? I thought Robyn was supposed to be sexy and interesting."

  She shook her head. "He smokes too much. And his hair’s too perfect. He looks like a salesman in a clothing store, or a TV actor. And he doesn’t have any hair on his chest. And he’s too sure of how fantastically attractive he is."

  Gideon laughed. "And just how do you happen to know he doesn’t have any hair on his chest?"

  Her fingers began to work at his shirt buttons. "Oh," she said, "you can tell. He’s just not the type. Not enough of that hairy male hormone, whatever you call it. He’s got a flat, white, hairless chest without those what-do-you-call-them muscles."

  "Pectoralis major. And testosterone."

  "Yes," she said, and undid a couple of the buttons.

  "And you don’t like hairless white chests."

  "No. I like them like yours. For when my nose itches." She rubbed her nose briskly against his chest. He bent suddenly and lifted her off her feet. It struck him as astonishing that he had never done it before in almost three weeks of marriage.

  "Gideon!" she said, caught by surprise. "I’m too heavy!"

  "Is that right?" he said, cradling her easily in his arms, showing off, feeling pleasantly powerful and in command. And full of testosterone. When he opened the door and stepped abruptly out into the hall with her, she jerked in his arms.

  "Gideon! What are you doing?"

  "I thought you wanted to make love on the hearth," he said.

  "There are people down there!" she whispered urgently.

  "Oh, I asked them about it. They said they wouldn’t mind. Paul said he’s never seen it done before, and he wants to take notes."

  "Gideon, put me down! Somebody might come along. Take me back inside!"

  "Turnabout," he muttered. "Spoilsport." He carried her back into the room, shoving the door shut behind them wi
th his shoulder.

  "You didn’t really ask them, did you?"

  "You asked me to."

  "Gideon!"

  He laughed and squeezed her. "Of course not, dopey."

  "Well, it’s just that I really don’t know you that well yet. I don’t know when you’re joking and when you’re serious. Are you ever going to put me down?"

  "I don’t know. You feel awfully good." He hefted her up to kiss her, and the lush, warm curve of her hip rode up against him. His knee jostled accidently against a low table on which sat an electric teapot and flowered china cups and saucers. The saucers rattled. "What would you say," he said, "if I told you that what I’d like most in the world right now was a nice, hot piece of tea? Oops."

  They both laughed, and she said, "I’d say you weren’t serious."

  He carried her to the bed, put her gently down, and knelt at the bedside to run his fingers down her soft throat to the smooth hollow at its base. "I have seen many a handsome fossa jugularis in my day, but yours is by far the sweetest and sexiest." He bent to kiss the fragrant flesh and moved back to look at her face. "Julie, I didn’t think it was possible to love anyone this much."

  "I know that." She lay quietly looking up at him, her hand lightly against his cheek.

  Gently, Gideon undid the top button of her blouse. Julie watched his face, her black eyes enormous.

  The telephone rang.

  "No," Gideon said, "it wouldn’t dare."

  It rang again. Loudly. It gave the unmistakable impression that it would go on ringing until it was answered.

  Gideon grimaced, dipped his face quickly to kiss her, and tramped glumly to the phone.