Aaron Elkins: Unnatural Selection

“And you find what you looking for?”

Clapper smiled. “I believe we did, yes, as a matter of fact.”

What do you know, he’s figured it out, too, Gideon thought. He hoped it was true, because it meant that it wasn’t going to be up to him, Gideon, to rat on anyone after all, a duty he was dreading. His stiff shoulders relaxed a bit. He began thinking that a cup of tea might be a good thing.

“Good, good,” Kozlov said, “you make progress.”

“Oh, yes,” Clapper boomed genially on, his voice carrying well on the soft, warm air, “we should have it all sorted out pretty soon now. I have to clear up a few minor areas of inconsistency, that’s all.”

“Inconsistency?” Donald asked after a few seconds of silence that was very definitely pregnant. “Are you referring to our interviews with you?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Minor things, really, but-”

“Well, this would be a good time to resolve them, wouldn’t it?” Rudy asked. “We’re all here.”

“Oh, I don’t like to intrude on this splendid tea.”

Like hell you don’t, Gideon thought.

“Is okay, is good, is interesting,” Kozlov said. “What kind inconsistency?”

“Well, all right, then. It’s a simple matter of room assignments at the first consortium two years ago.” Hatless but otherwise in his casual summer uniform of white short-sleeved shirt and blue trousers, Clapper looked crisp and robust. He lifted the flap of his breast pocket, took out his mechanical pencil and notepad, licked the point of the pencil, and pretended to study the diagram he’d drawn earlier.

“Now let me see… Mister Waldo, you stated that you and Mrs. Waldo were in the Sir Henry Vane Room…”

Waldo colored slightly at the mention of his wife, but nodded. “That’s correct.”

“Mrs. Oliver, you were in the Sir John Wildman Room; and Ms. Petra, I believe you said you were staying in the Duke of Hamilton Room. Mr. Walker, the John Bastwick Room.”

Nod, nod, nod.

“Very good. To continue-”

“Wait a minute,” Donald said. “I’m pretty sure Cheryl and I were in the John Bastwick Room.” He frowned. “Weren’t we? Isn’t that what I told you?”

“That is what you told me,” Clapper said, pretending to scrutinize his drawing again, and then raising his head to level his gaze at Donald, “and therein lies the source of my confusion. I rather doubt that the three of you were lodged together.”

“Of course we weren’t,” Rudy said primly. “Donald, if I’m not mistaken, you two were in the John Biddle Room.”

“The hell we were,” Cheryl said, turning her attention from Robb. “We were in the John Bastwick Room. Joey was next to us in the Marianus Napper Room, and you were on the other side of him, in the John Biddle Room, down at the end of the hall.”

“That’s right,” Liz said. “I remember, too.”

“So do I,” Julie said. “Definitely.”

“Was I?” Rudy shrugged. “That’s not what I remember, but maybe I was. Too many Johns around here, I guess.”

“Actually, Mr. Walker,” Clapper said gravely, setting his tea down on the lawn and rising from the cannon, never taking his eyes from Rudy, “it’s quite a significant point, I’m afraid.”

Rudy wasn’t laughing anymore “ What’s a significant point? What the hell difference does it make which room I was in? What’s this all about? What are you trying to do?”

Clapper just kept gazing at him, as did the others now. The silence on the ramparts was profound. There was no sound but the soughing of the breeze.

“What’s going on here?” Rudy blurted, looking now at Robb, who had gotten up and was slowly approaching him. “What’s the difference? I forgot my room, that’s all. I didn’t kill anyone, you know, I just-”

“Yeah, you did,” Gideon said. He hadn’t meant to; it had just popped out. And he’d said if softly, mostly to himself, but in the silence everyone heard it.

“Yeah,” echoed Clapper with what he must have thought was an American twang, “you did.” He glanced at Robb. “Constable?”

Robb placed himself directly in front of Rudy, face to face, and stood tall. “Rudolph James Walker, you are under arrest for the murder of Edgar Villarreal. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in Court. Anything you do say…”

Gideon spent the following two hours at the police station, first talking briefly with Clapper and then, at his request, making out a deposition on Robb’s computer. Meanwhile, three or four yards away, behind the closed door of the interview room, Rudy went through the lengthy English booking process. When the door opened for Robb to bring in coffee and sandwiches, Gideon got his first look at Rudy since the arrest. He was seated behind one of the two tables, gray-faced and rigid, and Gideon thought at first that they’d put him in some kind of white prison uniform, but then realized it was a paper suit. Did they think he was a suicide risk, then, dressing him in paper to be sure he had nothing that could be used for a ligature?

My amusing, irreverent old buddy in a paper suit to keep him from killing himself. Gideon shivered. Their eyes met, and Rudy sent him a smile, but it was like getting a smile from a corpse. When the door closed Gideon still seemed to see it, like a Cheshire-cat afterimage, and it sent what felt like a jet of ice-cold water up his spine and deep into his skull.

That’s it, he thought. Time for me to get out of here. There was plenty left to be done-he had yet to properly inventory and record the bones-but there was no reason it couldn’t wait until tomorrow. He printed up the deposition, signed it, gave it to Robb, and told him he’d be back the next day to finish up. Then he walked up the hill to the castle, trying to sort out his feelings. Contributing to the conviction of a two-time murderer; that was good. Helping put one of his oldest friends-at a difficult time in his life, his dearest friend-away for the rest of his life, not so good.

He found Julie on a bench at the top of the path, just outside the castle walls, staring out to sea and looking as pensive and down in the dumps as he was.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she said vacantly as he sat down beside her. “What’s happening at the station? Is Rudy admitting anything?”

“Don’t ask me. I was all by myself writing my deposition. Rudy was in the next room being interrogated. Nobody told me anything.” He took her hand. “What about you, Julie, how are you holding up? This has been a hell of a conference.”

“Oh, I’m all right, I guess. I’m out here because I just couldn’t bear to be in there”-a tilt of her head toward the walls looming behind her-“with them anymore. Isn’t there someplace we can go to get away from them, and from the castle, and everything else, just for a while?”

He thought for a moment. “I think so, yes. Only a few miles away, but out of sight anyway, and far removed in time, if not in place.”

“That sounds mysterious.”

He stood and pulled her to her feet as well. “Come on.”

They borrowed Kozlov’s boxy, ancient Hillman Minx (“Not forget. Drive on wrong side.”) and drove north to Bant’s Carn, one of the Bronze Age grave mounds he’d been at earlier in the day. As before, the hilltop site was deserted. When they climbed up onto the grave’s monumental capstone and sat, legs hanging over the edge, they had it all to themselves: the ancient site itself, the rolling green and purple countryside that fell away from it, the sunset view of sea and islands, the fresh marine breeze with its trace of heather and gorse. They had stopped at Porthmellon for a bag of Maltesers, and it lay open now between them. Julie slowly rolled a malted milk ball around her mouth (she was a sucker, he was a chewer), already looking more relaxed, and for a few minutes, and a few malted milk balls, they sat in tranquil silence.