“I don’t think anything’s irrelevant, especially the coins. Remember that call Sheila made to the reporter, Jenkins, about finding gold?” Rebecca saw again that blank stare in the depths of the tomb. Her folded hands tightened. “You’ve heard the story about the betrayal of Kildrummy Castle? Time of Robert the Bruce—you’d have to ask Michael, that’s his period.”
Michael himself looked up out of the trench and saw Rebecca sitting with Mackenzie. His brows signaled curiosity and concern. Then Jerry turned away from the camera and blocked his view.
“Anyway,” Rebecca continued, “one of the castle minions sold it out to the English besiegers. For a price, of course. They paid him off by melting the gold he asked for and pouring it down his throat.”
Devlin’s pen stopped scratching, then started again.
“Not that I really want to believe the killing was connected with the dig, the priory, buried treasure or publicity or whatever,” Rebecca finished. “That makes it look like one of us did it. But you remember the old saw about the lust for money being the root of evil.”
“And not lust itself as the root of evil?”
“Like I said, nothing’s irrelevant.”
Mackenzie nodded sagaciously. He reached out, palm up. Devlin handed him another sheaf of computer printouts. “We’ll be talking to everyone again in the next couple of days,” he said, flipping pages.
“Like archeologists,” said Rebecca, “scraping away a layer at a time.”
Adele carried a bucket of dirt across the cloister. By the set of her shoulders it was evident she was avoiding glancing over at Rebecca and her official chaperones. Tony, with similar forced disinterest, sat down in the shadow of the church wall to change film. Dennis leafed through the artifact records while Elaine packed away the lights. Hilary glanced over her drawing board at Rebecca, offered her a quick smile, and went back to work. Michael and Mark moved aside as Jerry climbed back into the trench, trowel at the ready. The sun sank toward the west and the breeze stiffened.
Rebecca focused on Mackenzie’s barbed profile. He thought the murderer was someone on the dig, or he’d be picking on the townspeople. He wouldn’t take the easy way out.
Mackenzie deflected her scrutiny with a half smile. “Why did you and Dr. Campbell argue?”
That was one question she hadn’t been expecting. “I told you. Personal and professional differences.”
“Be more specific.”
“Oh. I see. You’re checking my story against his.” Rebecca gazed off into the middle distance, seeing the bright afternoon inlaid with Michael’s angry face. “I made a mistake at the excavation, and he corrected me much more harshly than necessary in front of my students. I told him how I felt, also more harshly than necessary. The next thing I knew we weren’t talking about that any more, but about the nature of our relationship, whether we wanted to marry after all.” She paused. The image of Michael’s anger faded into one of his sensitive and sensual introspective moments as he played his pipes. “At least I was talking about our relationship. I don’t guess you can really understand that kind of thing, can you? Business worries lapsing over into personal ones.”
Mackenzie laughed. Rebecca stared at him. But no, he wasn’t making fun of her, he was ruefully considering some image of his own. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard of Amanda Fraser.”
“No.”
“She’s a barrister. Quite a good one. Specializes in—shall we say in making sure the C.I.D. doesn’t do anyone over too enthusiastically?” His laugh dwindled and died. “She’s my wife. You may be competing with Dr. Campbell for academic laurels, but I doubt if you’ll ever oppose each other in court, as Amanda and I have done.”
Rebecca glanced at Mackenzie’s left hand. No ring. Was that disclosure his and Devlin’s version of good cop/bad cop? “I didn’t know you were married. I apologize. You do understand.”
“Most of us marry,” said Devlin darkly, “at one time or another.”
“At any rate,” Mackenzie went on, “your argument with Dr. Campbell wasn’t over his relationship with Miss Fitzgerald.”
“Her attitude, to us and to the dig, helped to spark it. But then, the issues are so important it was bound to happen eventually.” Rebecca looked again at the trench. Michael was leaning on the edge expounding on something—another coin?—to Elaine. She nodded and went toward the church.
Mackenzie rattled his printouts. “Miss Reid, were you aware of the fact that one of your students has a court record?”
Rebecca eyed that damnably impassive face. She’d only imagined the wry laugh, that personal admission. “No, I wasn’t. Who is it? Mark? He said he’d had a rough time when he was a kid. Was he busted for pot?”
“You’re jumping to conclusions. I said court record, not criminal record. And I’m talking about Miss Chase.”
“What?”
“She was the plaintiff in a rape case three years ago.”
“The—you mean the victim?” Rebecca’s heart plummeted, landing with a surge of nausea somewhere behind her navel. Her head snapped around. Hilary was drawing, her hand steady, her face as calm and peaceful as that of William Salkeld’s effigy. “My God. So that’s it. Oh, Hilary.”
“What do you mean, so that’s it?” asked Devlin.
Rebecca dredged her queasiness for coherence. “Just some of the things she’s said and done. She’s very defensive when it comes to men.”
“You didn’t ask her why?” Mackenzie prodded.
“Good Lord, no! I hate to pry into other people’s lives. I hate people prying into mine.”
Devlin said, “We’re not doin’ it for amusement.”
Rebecca took a deep breath. She hoped the man who had violated the innocence Hilary was so desperate to affirm would rot in jail for the next century—hanging, drawing and quartering not being an option in Indiana.
“If you please,” said Mackenzie, “imagine whether, with Miss Chase’s background, Miss Fitzgerald’s—proclivities—might have disturbed her.”
“Come on. Hilary couldn’t have killed Sheila. She found the body.”
“So did you.”
Rebecca opened her mouth, found no words in it, closed it. Elaine reappeared carrying a box which she gave to Michael. Jerry gestured. She tramped off toward the hotel.
Notebook pages rustled. “Hilary told us yesterday,” said Devlin, “quote, ‘Women like that make it hard for all of us. They make men think we’re all like that.’“
And two nights ago, Rebecca thought unwillingly, Hilary had been green around the gills just thinking about Sheila and her many lovers. She dropped her face into her hands, massaging her temples, trying to forestall another headache. Mackenzie and Devlin ought to come equipped with bottles of aspirin, like Saint Bernards and their kegs of brandy. “All right. The girl has some hangups—and understandably so. We all have hangups to some extent. Most of us don’t commit murder because of them.”
Mackenzie shrugged. “Mr. Owen says he and Miss Chase left the cottage about 7:45, but went in different directions. Dr. Kleinfelter says she came into the pub at 8:30. Between those times Miss Chase herself says she was walking in the fields.”
“I’ve heard all that already. None of it makes me believe Hilary is capable of murder. Period. Got any more skeletons to drag out of their closets?”
Mackenzie didn’t refer to the printouts. He’d probably memorized them and was using them only as a prop. A trick he’d learned from his wife, the barrister? “Mrs. Garrity is a widow. Her only child, Christopher, died last year.”
“How?” Rebecca asked. From the corner of her eye she saw Adele removing yet another bucket of dirt with antlike persistence.
“An automobile accident. He was driving alone late at night, and lost control. The car hit a retaining wall head on.”
What had Adele said rather hopefully on the plane, about spirits lingering because of unfinished business? And that speech last night about men hiding their emotions… . Rebecca asked, “You
have the police report there? Was there any suggestion of drugs or alcohol? Were there any skid marks?”
“No.” Mackenzie frowned slightly. “And no. The death was ruled a suicide after an unhappy love affair. How did you know that?”
“Again, just something Adele said.” Rebecca shook her head, trying not to exacerbate her pain.
“Is it Mrs. Garrity’s interest in parapsychology?” asked Devlin.
“She’s searching awfully hard for evidence of an afterlife. Not surprising. Surely you’re not going to tie that into the murder.”
Mackenzie sorted his printouts, admitting nothing. Rebecca was beginning to understand why Devlin had such a contentious air; he was a boat constantly off the lee shore of implacable Mackenzie.
Her lips tight, Rebecca looked over to where Jerry, Michael and Mark were standing on the edge of the trench in close conference. They were trying to decide whether to take the skeleton out piecemeal or try to lift it all at once, no doubt. The way the bones were positioned would make them the devil to dig out, the upper ones collapsing as the excavation extended to the ones below.
Jerry’s hands moved in vertical swoops. Ah, they could come in from the side—the ground was damp enough. Elaine returned down the driveway, leading Grant Johnston and a waiter who were carrying several boards. So Jerry had already sent for wood to shore up the side of the trench. He was trying to keep the skeleton complete. Good for him.
Dennis edged away from the computer. Tony gathered up his cameras and stood poised. Mark leaned over, whispered something in Hilary’s ear, and tickled the back of her neck. Watch it, Rebecca told him silently. Hilary had almost self-destructed on him once before. But all Hilary did now was look up at him and blush.
“Are you going to talk to Hilary about—about the court records?” Rebecca asked.
Mackenzie, too, was watching the activity at the trench. “Aye.”
“Then get another woman to sit in. So Hilary won’t be as likely to think it’s an adversarial situation.”
“All right, Miss Reid. When the time comes we’ll call on you.”
She should have seen that coming, Rebecca told herself. The headache swelled. She slitted her eyes against the glare of the westering sun, but that blurred her vision. She’d rather tolerate the pain and see clearly.
“As for the other students,” said Mackenzie, “Mr. Tucker has two married sisters, and his father works for a computer software firm. His story of stealing Dr. Campbell’s sgian dubh is a wee bit thin, but unless he’s a superb actor, I doubt if he used the dagger on Miss Fitzgerald.”
Devlin muttered, “The lad’s a bungalow.”
“Nothing up top?” asked Rebecca. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”
Mackenzie glanced back at his sergeant, counseling him to avoid the editorial comments. He said to Rebecca, “And, despite your suspicions, Mr. Owen has nothing in his closet but two young half-siblings and an ex-wife, all of whom he told us about last night.”
Rebecca winced. The silver belt. “Karen. Is that her name?”
“They were married at seventeen, divorced at eighteen. He’s told you about her, then?”
“No. Just another guess.” That was what had happened to shake him out of his “rough time”. A shotgun wedding, probably. Mark must have a seven-or-eight-year-old child, about the age of the middle Johnston kid. But as a graduate student, he could hardly be contributing to the child’s upkeep… .
Love and money, Rebecca told herself. This is where she came in, sitting on that plane worrying about Michael and love and money. And she thought she and Michael had skeletons in their closets. Maybe this was a typical assortment of people, but she hoped not. Surely not every random collection of ten or so people had quite so many bones rolling about underfoot.
Boards and plastic sheeting waved above the top of the trench. The scene would have degenerated into a Three Stooges routine if it wasn’t for Jerry’s gesticulating arms and shouted directions. Damn. He would have to be competent. That made it a lot harder for Rebecca to suspect him of lying and cheating, of scapegoating assistants and conspiring with Sheila.
“Tell me, Miss Reid,” said Mackenzie. “Who killed Miss Fitzgerald?”
“How the heck should I know? You’re the detective.”
Mackenzie’s onyx eyes gleamed. “Have a go at it.”
“Laurence and Nora,” she stated, frowning in aggravation and concentration both. “They were unhappy with the way Sheila was presenting the dig. But for that they would have fired her, not killed her. I wouldn’t be surprised if they argued over her flirtatiousness. Maybe that got one of them mad enough to kill her. Motive—lust. I can’t see them being after the gold coins, the treasure, whatever, and planning to skip out on the RDG.”
Mackenzie leaned his chin on his hand and his elbow on his knee. “Very good. Do go on.”
“Jerry. He and Sheila could’ve had a falling out between thieves, exacerbated by the on again, off again, affair. Lust and money both. Elaine. She could’ve been jealous of Jerry and Sheila—Jerry’s her ticket to ride.” Rebecca forestalled Devlin’s question by adding, “She told me he was going to take her away with him, rescue her from her background. Lust and money again.”
Mackenzie didn’t blink.
“Tony. He could’ve been resentful of the way Sheila bossed him around. Maybe he, not Jerry, was working some kind of scam with her. Maybe he made the same deduction from the photo that I did, and found the coins. Money, again exacerbated by lust. There’s an echo out here.”
“And the warrant?” asked Devlin.
“Don’t confuse me with a wild card,” Rebecca told him. “Mark. Well, he spurned Sheila’s advances, being understandably wary of relationships, and she became angry and attacked him. She had the knife, after all—assuming Dennis is telling the truth about that.” Her sinuses hurt. “For Mark, self-defense more than lust. Even though he might have needed money to support his family… . No, that’s just too long a shot.”
“What about Miss Chase?”
“You’ve already got a motive for her, haven’t you? Temporary insanity sparked by her—her emotional mutilation.” Rebecca plunged on. “Adele. Some weird religious ritual. The belief she was avenging the priory ghosts for Sheila’s slighting remarks. Sending her son a companion. I don’t know. She’s our human wild card.”
“The coins on Sheila’s eyes,” murmured Mackenzie.
They understood each other altogether too well. “Right,” Rebecca said. “That does rather point to Adele, doesn’t it?”
“And Mr. Tucker,” Mackenzie continued. “The bungalow. Perhaps Miss Fitzgerald spurned his advances.”
“Perhaps there’s a lot more going on than we know about, Chief Inspector.”
“Oh, I have no doubt that’s very much the case.”
Rebecca dropped her face into her hands, concealing the light, Mackenzie, everything. No, not everything. Here she was calmly, coolly considering motivations. Here she was actually entertaining the idea someone she knew was a murderer. How far I’ve come in just a couple of days, she thought caustically. The police are infectious.
“You left out two suspects,” Devlin said quietly.
Rebecca looked up. “Not Bridget or Grant… .” Mackenzie’s half-amused, half-regretful expression stopped her. “Oh. Michael and me. Poor as church mice, the both of us, trying to get our acts together. Sheila barges in and bad-mouths me to him and him to his face. Bludgeon us with love or money, if you have to, but neither of us killed the woman.”
The maddening scratch of Devlin’s pen went on and on. Mackenzie’s eyes rested on Rebecca’s, probing like a surgeon after a tumor. She let him look, she had nothing to hide. She had nothing left to hide.
“Quitting time!” shouted Jerry. “Clear your loose! Clean your tools!”
“That’s a good idea,” Mackenzie said. He pressed his fingertips against his eyelids. Only the fact that his skin wasn’t quite as fair as Michael’s kept the circles under his eye
s from being just as dark. Rebecca wondered suddenly if he’d slept since Monday. “I’ll talk to you again tomorrow, Miss Reid.”
Devlin snapped shut his notebook and put it in his pocket. He and Mackenzie marched off toward the village.
Rebecca felt as if she’d been dropped from about twenty feet. She stood and stretched, groaning. Her buttocks were numb from the cold stone. Michael appeared at her elbow. “How was the conference wi’ Lestrade, Miss Holmes?”
“Don’t tease me,” she told him. “My nerves are shot.”
“I wisna teasin’ you,” he replied indignantly.
The others shouldered their equipment and walked off toward the cottage and the hotel, Mark whistling “Heigh ho, heigh ho.” The trench was beginning to look like the excavation of Tutankhamen’s tomb, the crevice between the ancient stones swathed in plastic, the supporting boards protruding like sentries. “How far did you get?” Rebecca asked Michael.
“To the pelvic arch. It is a man, right enough. Gold threads and a few shreds of what appears to be silk aboot his hips. A rich man, I doot, wi’ gold points on his doublet.”
“What were you showing Elaine?”
“One of his hands is lying by his left femur.” Michael crouched slightly, miming the posture. “He’s wearin’ a ring.”
“A signet ring, with a coat of arms? That might help identify him!”
“It certainly might. I told Elaine to put the box in the cottage—we’ll get to work cleanin’ it the night, then you can take a keek at it. Sixteenth century, that’s your field.”
Rebecca visualized their respective fields staked out, guarded by mines and lit by arching flares, while they each peered out warily from separate trenches. She rubbed the bridge of her nose, wondering if anything short of a flamethrower would help her headache.
He set his arm around her shoulders. “Tired, lass? Mackenzie’ll do you over properly.”
“And improperly,” she replied. “Come on. I’ll tell you about it.”
They walked around the church to the cemetery. Rebecca related the substance of the interview, from the intriguing fact of Mackenzie’s marriage to the horrible facts about Hilary. Michael spat, “Ah, by all that’s holy, it’s enough to make you give up sex as a bad job!”
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