Aaron Elkins: Unnatural Selection

“Any skeletal material?” he’d asked Julie hopefully.

The answer had been no, not that she recalled, but still there’d seemed enough of interest to occupy him for an enjoyable hour or two sometime during the week.

Madeleine moved her wineglass over the table in coy, tentative circles. “Well, while you’re there, I wonder if you might… that is, I can’t help but wonder… Well, you see, we have some human skeletal remains in storage. There’s one set in particular that I was hoping might be of interest to you-a leftover casualty from the Civil War, one of Cromwell’s soldiers. They found it sixty years ago, all scrunched up at the bottom of a dried-up well here on Garrison Hill, near the outer walls, costume and all. Well, the costume’s been on display ever since the museum opened, but the bones have been stored in the basement all this time.”

“Are you asking me to look at them for you?” Gideon asked.

“Yes, if you’d be interested.”

Bless you, he thought. What he’d told Julie about visiting the local Bronze and Iron Age sites was certainly true-as an anthropologist specializing in prehistory, he couldn’t help but be interested in them. But the Scillies had hundreds of such sites, and, frankly, one visit to a “village” consisting of a few scars in the ground and two or three hearth or grinding stones still in place went a long way. If he were down in the dirt with a brush and trowel in his hands, digging away, uncovering the past himself, that would have been one thing; but seeing them as a tourist-just wandering around pretending to make sense of the plaques-would get old pretty fast, and he’d been wondering just what it was he was really going to do with his time.

“I’m interested, all right,” he said.

“There isn’t much left, of course; just some arm and leg bones. Still, I’d love to exhibit them with the costume, don’t you see, but what could I say about them? I don’t know enough about them to say anything interesting-you know, how old he was, or… or whatever it is that a person like you could deduce. I asked my doctor to tell us what he could about them, but he just took one look at them and laughed. They’re probably human and probably male; that was as far as he was willing to put himself out.”

Gideon smiled. “Pretty safe guess, considering that they were wearing a seventeenth-century soldier’s uniform.”

“Oh, and he also said one of the bones looked diseased, but bones weren’t his specialty. You’d think doctors would know more about skeletons, wouldn’t you?”

“They do, really. It’s just that they know more about them in living people. It’s the opposite with me. I’ll be able to tell you a lot about a bone found out in the desert somewhere, but don’t ask me to set a green-stick fracture in some kid who fell off a fence.”

“I see.” She hesitated. “Then may I take it that you might be inclined to stop by for a few minutes and sort through them some time during the week?”

“I’d love to,” he said sincerely. “How about tomorrow morning? And for more than a few minutes-for as long as it takes, if you like.”

There were, in fact, few prospects that pleased him more than having an entire morning-an entire day, if possible-sitting by himself in some dusty lab or storeroom with a pot of coffee cooling beside him, surrounded by anonymous fragments of human bone; patiently using Elmer’s glue to piece together the skeletons; equally patiently using his education and intellect to piece together the lives of these now-forgotten people who had come before. There was a near-mystical contentment in it, a sense that he was speaking on their behalf, telling the world for them: Here I am, I did exist; this is who I was, this is what I did, this is how I died.

“Oh, you dear man, that’s super!” Madeleine shrilled. “We have a few other old bones in our storage room as well-odds and ends, mostly, I suppose you’d say-but if you’d care to see them as well-”

“These are what-Iron Age? Bronze Age?”

“Oh, dear, no,” Madeleine said. “Any human remains that come out of a prehistoric site go straight to the BM-the British Museum. No, these are simply the odd ulna or tibia that pops up on the beach from time to time. Old shipwrecks and such, don’t you know. Not all that unusual, really. People don’t know what to do about them, so they get turned in to the museum. We keep them a year or two for appearances’ sake, and then we quietly dispose of them.”

“Ah.” Gideon was disappointed, but not very. The older the better, as far as he was concerned, but bones were bones. There was always something of interest.

“We’d keep them longer, I suppose,” she rattled on, “if there were any hope of having them looked at by an expert, but we’ve never been able to lure one out here to go through them. No context, no skeletal populations of any size at all, do you see, so there isn’t much to be learned in any broad sense.”

“I understand their point, but I can’t agree with that. There’s always something to be learned.”

“My dear man, I’m thrilled to hear you say that.” She had puffed up with pleasure like a pouter pigeon. “Are there any tools you’d like me to have there for you?”

“Sure, a metal tape measure and a magnifying glass would be good.” He shrugged, thinking. “Oh, and some glue, in case there’s any repair to be done-Duco or Elmer’s would be good, but whatever you use for pottery would do.”

She nodded. “I’ll have them there for you. And is that all you need?” She seemed surprised. “Don’t you people use calipers and such? We have both kinds, spreading and sliding.”

“Well, yes,” he said a little defensively, “if I were doing a really exhaustive analysis. But all I’ll be trying to do here is to give you some general idea of who the guy was. I don’t think there’s much reason to-”

“No, no, of course not,” she said quickly, “a general idea is precisely what I want, and I appreciate it enormously.” She chewed tentatively on her lower lip. “And, er, Gideon, I suppose I should have mentioned this earlier, but-”

“Hello, everyone, sorry to be late.” Cheryl Pinckney, Donald’s wife, had arrived in a cloud of musky perfume and slipped into her seat beside Gideon as the main course of Chicken Kiev and rice pilaf was being set out.

Madeleine smiled coolly at her. Rudy gave her a surly, vaguely lustful nod.

“Just the rice for me,” she told the waitress, turning her head away from the Chicken Kiev as if it smelled bad. “And some salad, no dressing, oil and vinegar on the side. Pardon me, Gideon,” she said huskily as her forearm grazed his.

A moment later a smooth, pant-clad thigh brushed solidly against Gideon’s as she crossed her legs. “Sorry about that,” she said casually. “I guess my legs are a little too long for the table.”

He had chatted briefly with her during the reception. Cheryl was a nature photographer whose pictures had appeared in National Geographic , Travel and Leisure, and a few airline magazines. If she hadn’t told him, he wouldn’t have guessed that she was the wife of the prissy, balding Donald. On looks, she might have been a model. With her jutting cheek bones, long nose, and thin lips, no one would call her beautiful, but striking she was, and she moved with a catlike, self-assured grace that had drawn male eyes to her at the reception like iron filings to a magnet.

As far as Gideon was concerned, however, she could have stood to put on a few pounds. On the living, he preferred his skeletons a little better covered.

“As I was saying, Gideon,” Madeleine continued, “I suppose I should have mentioned this earlier-but I’m afraid we won’t be able to arrange anything like your normal fees.” She gave him a fluttery, winning smile. “If I were to buy you lunch, do you suppose that would do?”