Aaron Elkins - Murder In The Queen's armes

Gideon glanced down in the pit at Leon, who, with a rake in his hands, was watching him anxiously, his face still pale.

"It’s just that I made a promise."

"To who did you make a promise?" Up went a peremptory hand. "Hup! Never mind. A secret is a secret. Excuse me I should ask."

"Come on, Abe," Gideon said miserably, "it’s a promise. Give me a break."

Both of Abe’s hands went up now, palms toward Gideon, and the frail shoulders shrugged. "Not another word. Why should your old teacher-who taught you everything, and who helps you on your cases all the time, and who’s supposed to be running this dig-know what’s going on?"

"Good," Gideon said more firmly. "I’m glad you feel that way. We’re liable to have a problem with Nate, by the way. He ought to be there, and he was pretty well soused when I left him an hour ago."

"Nate?"

"Yes, indeed. He’s sleeping it off, I think."

Abe made a decisive little nod. "When we’re finished here, I’ll go down and fix him up. I’ll make him take a guggle-muggle."

"Come again?"

"An old remedy. You mix whiskey, hot tea, molasses, and raw eggs, and swallow it in one gulp."

Gideon made a face. "It sounds terrible."

"That’s why you got to drink it in one gulp. You call it a guggle-muggle because that’s what it sounds like when it goes down: Guggle, muggle. Believe me, by seven o’clock he’ll be fine."

He walked a few steps to the pit and called for attention, his voice thin in the crisp air.

"Hold it a minute, please! We need to have a meeting tonight at seven o’clock. I hope it doesn’t interfere with anybody’s plans."

Only Sandra appeared annoyed. "How long will it be?"

Abe looked at Gideon, who said, "An hour; maybe more."

"No problems?" Abe asked the group, and waited. Sandra sighed gustily. The others were quiet. "Let’s meet at the Queen’s Armes, in that room next to the lounge, with all the sofas."

"The sitting room," Gideon said.

"Right, the sitting room. I’ll see there’s something to nosh on; a little coffee and some Danish."

Gideon started for the shed to do some pottery sorting, but had gone only a few steps when he remembered his promise to Julie. He turned around.

"I just remembered. I can’t make it at seven. How about eight?"

No one objected. Leon gave him a small, pallid nod. Only Abe spoke. "And why not at seven?"

"Because…well, it’s just hard for me."

"A secret?" Abe asked drily.

"No, not a secret," Gideon growled. "I just promised my wife I’d walk out with her to Dyne Meadow and, uh, watch the moon come up. At seven-oh-four."

Everyone seemed to look at him for a long time before Abe clapped his hands together. "Okay, folks," he said, "let’s get the backfilling all finished up. Leon, you look a little green around the gills. You’re all right?"

"I… I’m not sure."

Abe nodded knowingly. "The fish paste. You want to lie down? Maybe you should go home early?"

"No-yes, I think maybe that’d be a good idea."

"Go ahead; get some rest. You’ll be at the meeting tonight?"

"Definitely." Leon’s grayish lips stretched in a sickly smile. "I wouldn’t miss it."

By four o’clock the rest of the crew had also left, and Abe and Gideon locked up the gate and walked down the hill together, "Abe," Gideon said as they approached the bottom, "I’ve been thinking about that femur."

"I’ve been thinking too."

"In spite of everything else, Nate seems to have run a pretty professional dig. That means that what ever it was Leon found, it would have been photographed right away. There must be photographs of it. I think we ought to look through the whole photographic file-"

"This I already did," Abe said. "Nothing."

"Huh," Gideon said.

They walked across the wooden footbridge over the Char, their feet making homely, muffled thumping sounds. Abe stopped suddenly.

"Wait a minute. Tell me something. The boy that got killed-Randy-he was the technician, right? He took the photographs?"

"Right."

"So, tell me, Mr. Skeleton Detective: If the police were investigating his murder, wouldn’t they develop any film he had in his camera? In case it should give them a clue?"

"I don’t know."

"Of course they would. I read it all the time in detective books. Randy got killed when?"

"November thirteenth, probably."

"And Leon’s card got filled out November first. So the pictures were maybe still in the camera. I think you should give Inspector Bagshawe a telephone call."

"I think you’re right," Gideon said after a moment.

He called from a red telephone booth on Lower Sea Lane and got Sergeant Fryer. Abe had been correct. They had indeed found that Randy’s camera contained film, and had developed it. To their disappointment, the pictures had all been of rocks, potsherds, and other such useless things. If Gideon wanted them, he could have them. Inspector Bagshawe had to pass through Charmouth on his way from work and would no doubt be glad to drop them off at the Queen’s Armes. Would eight o’clock or thereabouts be convenient? Eight o’clock, Gideon said, would be perfect.

Abe nodded with satisfaction when Gideon hung up and told him. "Good," he said, stopping under a sedate sign that read Dampiers of Charmouth. Licensed Grocers. Provision Merchants. "Maybe we’ll find out something. Now I got to buy what goes into the guggle-muggle, and then maybe I can get Nate to have a bite before the meeting."

Ten minutes later Gideon was hammering on the door of the Queen’s Armes, hoping that Julie was inside and could hear him. Andy and his wife, he’d remembered too late, had gone off shopping again, and Gideon had neglected to take his key with him. Abe, who probably had one, was of course at the Cormorant, pouring his horrific concoction into poor Nate. Whether it sobered him up or not, Gideon thought, it would surely cure him of any incipient tendency toward alcoholism.

As far as he knew, there were no other guests at the hotel to come to his rescue, and the George, which looked so inviting across the street, would not be open until five, thereby ruling out the expedient of a cozy pint before the fire. Gideon was just beginning to feel sorry for himself when the heavy door swung inward. Paul Arbuckle stood there, looking, as usual, surprised and gently perturbed.

"Well, hi, Gideon."

"Paul-I thought you weren’t due back until tomorrow."

"No, getting back from Dijon is complicated. I had to leave there today." His eyes brightened. "Boy, Gideon, we came up with another Acheulian scraper, and some worked Dama clactonia bones. It’s fantastic! You ought to come and see it!"

Gideon, envying him, smiled. "How about letting me in? It’s a little chilly out here."

"Sorry." Arbuckle laughed and stood aside.

They walked down the long entry corridor, lined with dark wooden walls, still redolent of cedar after five hundred years. Gideon stopped opposite the Tudor Room.

"Listen, Paul, have you taken any official action on this mess yet?"

"No, not till tomorrow."

"Good. Are you free at seven o’clock tonight?-eight o’clock, rather?"

"Yes, why?"

"There’s going to be a meeting of the whole crew here in the sitting room. Something’s come up that you’re going to want to hear about."

"What?"

"Well, I made a promise that I’d keep the thing under wraps until then," Gideon said, feeling silly, "but you’re going to want to rethink the action against Nate when you hear about it."

"And it’s a secret?" Arbuckle looked doubtfully at Gideon, then broken into his doughy smile. "All right, I guess I can wait till eight. But don’t get your hopes up too high. Nate really has behaved like a fool. Robyn believes he should be drummed out of the corps entirely, and… well, to be perfectly frank, I think the poor dumb bastard has it coming." He colored slightly at this excess. "I don’t know what your surprise is, but I hope it’s a good one."