by Aaron Elkins
"That," said Robyn, "is ample, and quite instructive. Obviously, Professor Marcus was so intent on proving his fantastic theory that he disregarded the signs that point so unequivocally to this object’s being a fraud."
Arbuckle, who had been blinking and frowning behind the thick, none-too-clean lenses of his glasses, appeared to suddenly understand. "Unless," he murmured in a shocked whisper to Nate, "you buried it there in the first place." He took a backward step away from Nate, as if afraid of catching something.
"Buried it?" Nate repeated blankly. "Why would… You mean planted it? Me? You’re out of your mind!"
Arbuckle held up both hands. "All right, Nate," he said quickly, "I didn’t mean to accuse you." He lowered his chin and went doggedly on. "But somebody must have, er, planted it."
Nate stared hard at the shrinking Arbuckle, then at Gideon, and spoke through compressed lips. "Okay. All right. I blew it. You’re right, I should have seen the signs. Somebody must have buried…No," he said slowly, "that’s impossible. What would be the point? How could they know anyone would find it? I could have missed it easy…It could have lain there a hundred years. It wasn’t even near the trenches…"
"First things first," Robyn interjected. "We’re here today to look into whether Professor Marcus has been conducting his research in a sufficiently professional manner." In an undertone he added, "As for myself, frankly, I consider that this latest …happening…makes the question moot."
Nate’s dark face turned a mottled red, but before he could respond, Abe stepped in, with a quick glance toward the enthralled students. "And I think," he said mildly, but in a tone that encouraged no argument, "this discussion should be continued in private, with only the parties concerned." He grasped Nate’s arm and steered him in the direction of the shed. Nate went unresistingly, and Arbuckle and Robyn, after an exchange of grim looks, moved to follow, as did Frawley.
"Gideon," Abe called over his shoulder, "maybe you’ll finish up with the skull so we can send it back to where it belongs?"
An embarrassed silence descended as soon as the others left, until Gideon spoke.
"I’ll need some tools."
"I’ll get them," Sandra said hastily. "We keep a toolbox at the excavation." She trotted elegantly off.
"I can get a packing crate," Leon offered.
"I’ll go with you," Barry jumped in. All of them were eager to get away from the scene of disaster, and no wonder.
When Sandra returned, Gideon, also wishing himself elsewhere, took an angled dental pick, a toothbrush, and a small paintbrush, and quickly worked loose the dirt around the bone. By the time the crate arrived, he was done. He lifted the calvarium with both hands, settled it among the Styrofoam peanuts, and closed the lid.
"Will you see that this goes to Dr. Arbuckle?"
"You bet, Gideon," Leon said.
There was another awkward silence until Barry literally shook himself into speech. "Mr. Robyn gave me his keys for you to use to get out of the gate," he said, producing a leather key case. "He said you could leave them with the guy at the Queen’s Armes."
Gideon’s mood was gloomier than ever as he crested the hill and started down. At the fence he found a slender young man in a fawn-colored suit delicately rattling the lock.
"I’ve been calling out for half an hour," he said when Gideon got within speaking distance. "I was beginning to fear I’d have to scale the thing." He smiled genteely, the English sort of smile that raises the inside corners of the eyebrows and wrinkles the forehead charmingly. "It would have been hard on the suit."
"It would also have been trespassing," Gideon said, not disposed to banter.
Unabashed, the young man announced, "Curtis Honett. I’m with the West Dorset Times."
The West Dorset Times. The newspaper that seemed to
know so much. "Sorry to disappoint you," Gideon said, slipping out and relocking the gate behind him, "but I think Professor Marcus will be canceling his press conference."
"What press conference?" Honett moved closer. "I understand that the bone missing from the Dorchester Museum turned up here today. Is that true?"
Gideon barely managed to hide his astonishment. "Where did you hear that?"
The reporter drew his motile, auburn eyebrows together. "It isn’t true? Mr. Chantry was certain—"
"Mr. Chantry?"
"My boss, the editor. He’s been working personally on the Stonebarrow story."
"And just where does Mr. Chantry get his information?"
"You wouldn’t want me to divulge our sources, would you?" He grinned brightly. "So it is true then?"
"Sorry," Gideon said, "I’m afraid ‘no comment’ is the most you’re going to get from me." He turned to head down the path. "And don’t quote me on that." Then, relenting slightly, he added. "You’ll want to talk to Dr. Arbuckle of Horizon or Mr. Robyn of the WAS on this. But I think they’re going to be tied up for a while."
"THE West Dorset Times," said a cultivated voice, "at your service."
"Good morning. May I speak with Mr. Chantry, please?"
"One moment. What name shall I say?"
"Gideon Oliver."
In a few seconds another voice came on, whispery and apologetic. No, Mr. Ralph Chantry was not in his office at the moment. No, no one else was familiar with the Stonebarrow matter. No, no one was sure just when he would return, but tomorrow was likely. Could Mr. Oliver try again tomorrow? Gideon replaced the receiver and leaned back in the leather armchair, staring out unseeingly at the ragged fog that obscured the hillside he’d come down half an hour before.
He wondered moodily about the inquiry still going on in the bleak little shed on the fell. Whatever the explanation for the amazing "happening," as Robyn had called it, Nate’s career was finished. Even Abe’s ability to smooth rough waters was unlikely to do much good, given the cold look in Robyn’s eye and the equally dark, if less penetrating, one in Arbuckle’s. Whether or not Nate had planted the skull himself—and Gideon couldn’t believe that he had—was immaterial. Nate was in charge of the dig and had to bear responsibility for everything that occurred on it. And, of course, he had personally done all the work on the calvarium himself, and had been braying about it in his usual obnoxious manner for weeks. There was no way he could ever possibly live it down.
"Gideon," Julie said, "I think it’s time for you to forget about Stonebarrow Fell. How about a hike in the country? I’ve got a booklet that shows some local walks."
"Looks like rain."
"So we’ll take our ponchos. You know, you can still hike along some of those old right-of-way footpaths that have been there for centuries."
"It’s been a wet winter; they’ll be awfully muddy."
She laughed and plopped herself into his lap. Her arms went about his neck. "My, you’re feeling adventurous, aren’t you?"
He smiled and clasped his hands around her waist. "I guess I’m a little mopey. I don’t like thinking about what’s going to happen to Nate, even if he brought it on himself. And the murder…"
"You need a hike," she said firmly, "and you are going to get one."
He had continued to stare out the window, but now he
put his hands on her shoulders, set her straighter on his knees, and looked at her face. She was smiling down at him, her black, luminous eyes so lit with love that his breath caught unexpectedly in his chest. How had he ever done without her? If she were to leave, the hole in his life would be so vast….
"Yes, ma’am," he said. "Where will we hike to?"
" ‘Wootton Fitzpaine, a tiny village a few miles from Charmouth,’ " she said, reading from a booklet, " ‘and one of the vicinity’s most popular rural walks.’ "
"And why Wootton Fitzpaine in particular?"
"Because," she said, "it has such a nice name."
He rose from the chair, lifting her in his arms as he did so, pleased with the solid weight of her. "I can’t imagine a better reason."
THE walk to Wootton Fitzpaine began,
according to Scenic Dorset Walks, only a block from The Queen’s Armes, at the opening to a rough and muddy track—two wheel ruts, actually—laughably signposted Barr’s Lane. The track ran for about an eighth of a mile, forming a narrow alley bounded on either side by crude, head-high stone walls of some antiquity. At the end of this lane a stile led into open meadows, but just before this stile the wall on the left side gave way to a sturdy, seven-foot-high chain-link fence that enclosed an extensive dog run at the back of a neat, thatch-roofed house.
As they were about to push through the stile to get into the countryside, they were astounded by a roar so loud that Gideon at first thought it must be a caged and furious lion inside the house. Momentarily petrified, they stood with their hands frozen on the stile.
When he saw it, Gideon thought at first it was a lion—a long-legged nightmare lion—but it wasn’t. It was a dog.
Huge, malevolent, and bellowing—"barking" wasn’t the word for it—it came tearing around the side of the house, racing toward them with death in its red eyes.
Instinctively, Gideon stepped in front of Julie as the thing bounded wildly against the fence. The animal, which must have known from experience that it couldn’t get at them, gave it its best nonetheless. Raging and slavering, it leaped again and again at the shuddering fence, its forelegs as high as Gideon’s head, its thick chest on a level with his own.
"Is that a dog?" Julie asked in a small voice, peeking around his shoulder, and making a move to get out from behind him. He could see fingers of color returning to her cheeks and had no doubt that his own face was also on the pale side.
"I don’t know what else. The Hound of the Baskervilles, maybe."
From the house behind the dog came a petulant call. "For heaven’s sake, Bowser, be quiet!"
Gideon and Julie looked at each other. Bowser?
A stocky man in late middle age, with a military bearing, a gray, bristling military mustache, and a sandy toupee, came grumbling from the back door.
"Be quiet, I said!" The dog, with bad grace, reluctantly stopped trying to devour them and instead satisfied itself with ferocious glaring and panting.
The man approached the animal and grasped it firmly by its wide collar. Its head, Gideon noted, was not far below the man’s shoulders, its neck almost as thick as his waist.
"Hullo," the man said, smiling crisply. "I’m Colonel Conley. I hope the Beast didn’t frighten you."
"Frighten us?" Gideon said. "Not at all. He was just being friendly."
The colonel laughed. "Hardly. He’d as soon eat you as look at you. Americans, are you? Out on a walk to Wootton Fitzpaine?"
"Yes," Julie said. "That’s quite an animal. What in the world is he?"
"Crossbreed," Colonel Conley said. "I went into dog breeding after the war, you see, and Bowser is my prize. Proper name, Pyecombe Sable of Hempstead. Half mastiff, half staghound, with perhaps a little werewolf thrown in. Magnificent creature, don’t you think? Ran in the Count de Vergie’s pack, you know?" Gideon and Julie looked mutely at him. "At Château Touffon? Near Vienne? You really haven’t heard of it? Famous for its stag hunts, and the count’s pack is disputably the best in the world. Unfortunately, Bowser tends toward over enthusiasm, and he tore the throat out of a horse." He dug his knuckles fondly into the root of a huge, tawny ear. "And," he whispered respectfully, "came as near as dammit to doing in a man. I’m afraid he has a bit of a mean streak in him."
"Does he really?" Gideon said, eyeing Bowser, who was quivering and twitching with convincing blood lust.
Again the colonel laughed. "I’m sure you’ve noticed. Don’t worry, though. There isn’t any way he can get through." He shook the gate in the fence, jangling a sturdy padlock on a heavy chain. "I take extreme precautions. It’s perfectly safe. Enjoy your walk, and don’t pay any attention to him on your way back. He gets accustomed to you after a time or two."
As they twisted their way through the stile to enter the open country, Bowser thundered again, deprived of his rightful prey, but Colonel Conley tugged on his collar and said, "Bad show, Bowser," and the dog sat down, mumbling and drooling. Julie and Gideon walked a few hundred yards into the meadow, out of sight and sound of the dog, and then Julie sat suddenly on a log and started thumbing through Scenic Dorset Walks.
"Are we lost already?" Gideon asked.
"No, I’m looking for an alternate way back."
"And disappoint Bowser?"
"You better believe it." She chewed the corner of her lip and wrinkled her nose. Strange. Gideon had always thought nose-wrinkling ridiculous and unsightly; on Julie it devastated him.
"No," she said, "we have to come back through Barr’s Lane unless we want to go way out of our way and walk along A-35." She closed the booklet. "Uh-uh. What kind of country walk would that be?"
"Right. Besides, don’t worry about Bowser. I had him in the palm of my hand." He sat down next to her on the log. "Hey, just look at where we are. Can the world be all bad if there are still places like this?"
"This is Dyne Meadow, according to the book. It is nice, isn’t it?"
They were in a green and gently undulating grassy field bordered on one side by a dark copse of pines, and on another by a sparkling, tree-lined stream. To the west they could see a ruined stone barn around which grazed a few placid cattle; and to the north, half a mile off, a farmer plowed his field near a stark, whitewashed farmhouse. The noise of his tractor was like the far-off, lazy buzzing of a bee. It might have been 1940 or 1920. If not for the tractor, it could have been 1720.
"How lovely," Julie sighed. "Let’s just stay here forever."
They stayed, in fact, half an hour, just drinking in the peace, and then, pacified themselves, proceeded hand in hand.
As Gideon had predicted, it was extremely muddy, especially near the stiles, where the ground had been churned into glue by cattle hooves. But it was Dorset mud, of which the locals were justly proud. Gray and gloopy as it looked and felt, it was solid enough so that it hardly wet their feet, yet liquid enough to slide from their shoes without caking. The lowering sky, while it threatened to burst with rain at any moment, held off, and the moisture-heavy air was fragrant with Dorset’s grassy smell.
Rights of way in rural England are not quite what Americans imagine them to be. They are unlikely to be posted, and they frequently do not consist of paths visible to the naked eye. Following a guidebook, one simply skirts the western flank of this coppice of larches, bears slightly right, and walks through the northern end of that beech spinney, then crosses the gravel road, bearing north-northeast at a spot one hundred yards west of the signposts to Knickers-on-Tyne, just beyond a lightning-shattered pine tree. Even with a map, one is likely to spend a lot of time lost and trespassing. After a while Julie and Gideon settled for following the instructions in Scenic Dorset Walks in only the most approximate fashion, taking care to give plenty of room to the bulls they occasionally saw, and to avoid walking over worked fields that weren’t supposed to be there.
They never managed to find Wootton Fitzpaine, but they walked through quiet woods and over grassy hills from which there were misty views of rolling, impossibly green countryside quilted into squares and trapezoids by trim, winter-brown hedgerows, and dotted by scattered groups of two or three thatch-roofed old buildings. They climbed over wooden stiles and walked through little white picket gates (who kept them all so spruce and freshly painted?) with gateposts set neatly in the middles of hedges, and they crossed little burbling brooks on footbridges consisting of a single plank. And always there was the fragrance of rain-wet grass. They saw no other people except farmers, and those at great distances, but there were cows and sheep and great black birds that squawked overhead.
"Are those crows?" Gideon asked. "Or ravens?" His voice startled them both; they had been walking in easy, companionable silence for almost an hour.
"Let me know if one lands on a ruler, and I’ll tell you."
"Come again?"
"The crows are a f
ew inches smaller. Otherwise I can’t tell; at least not from here. There’s something about the tails, I think."
"Some park ranger you are. I thought you knew all about birds."
"But I’m not a park ranger anymore. I got married, remember? And, being a good, old-fashioned wife, I left my lovely job in lovely Olympic National Park to go where my husband went."
"Yea," Gideon said, "even unto San Mateo, California." He said it lightly, but it was something that worried them both. When they had met, she had been senior ranger at the park in Washington and he’d been teaching at Northern California University, where he’d been made full professor the year before. They ran into trouble at once. There had been no ranger jobs for Julie anywhere near San Francisco Bay, and the newly opened Port Angeles campus of the University of Washington—the first university on the Olympic Peninsula—did not yet have a graduate anthropology department to which Gideon might apply. Somebody’s career had to be interrupted for a while.
There had been a lot of discussions, but no arguments. To both of them, the idea of Gideon doing anything but teaching anthropology was absurd, so Julie had resigned her position—or rather, taken a leave of absence, just to be on the safe side. They had justified the decision on the grounds that Gideon’s salary was the greater of the two, but Gideon suspected that underneath, she really was an old-fashioned wife for whom the husband’s career came first. And underneath, Gideon knew very well that he liked it that way, closet chauvinist that he was. At any rate, when they got back from Europe, Julie would face the unenviable prospect of job-hunting; she wasn’t old-fashioned enough to want to stay home and take care of him.