Aaron Elkins: Murder In The Queen's armes

"Look who’s here," Nate said flatly. "What a terrific surprise."

"Hi, Nate. It’s nice to see you."

"Sure." Nate folded his arms. "Have a seat. Have some coffee."

"Thanks," Gideon said, unsure of himself, feeling as if he were accepting not a cup of coffee but a challenge.

Frawley scuttled to a corner. "I’ll take care of the coffee," he said, heavily jocose. "That’s an assistant director’s primary responsibility." He busied himself with the coffee things that are as omnipresent as calipers or acetone in archaeology workrooms all over the world.

Nate stared at Gideon, his eyes inexpressive. "Okay, Gid, what do you want?"

Even for Nate this was pretty brusque, and there was an increasing prickle of irritation at the back of Gideon’s neck. Or was he being unduly sensitive? He had been irritated by Leon; he hadn’t liked Sandra; he found Frawley odious; and now Nate seemed even ruder than usual. Maybe Gideon was just having one of his misanthropic days and it was all in his mind. On the other hand, he reassured himself charitably, he hadn’t disliked Barry, had he? No, it wasn’t his perception; there was something uneasy, something off-key in the atmosphere of Stonebarrow Fell.

"I don’t want anything," he said evenly. "I was traveling in the area with my wife, so I thought I’d say hello. And Abe Goldstein wanted me to give you his best."

There was a ponderous silence while Frawley brought back three mugs of coffee clutched insecurely in his white hands. He set them carefully on the table. "There we go. See, even assistant directors are good for something." He sat on Nate’s other side, around the corner of the table.

Nate continued to glower at Gideon. "You thought you’d drop in," he finally said.

"Yes."

When Nate just kept staring at him with a crooked, unfunny smirk on his face, Gideon stood up, puzzled and angry. He had paid his duty call and had no wish to be glared at by a contentious and hostile colleague who might once have been a friend, but who clearly had no use for him at the moment.

"You don’t have anything to do with the inquiry?" Nate said sharply as Gideon pushed his chair back. "Is that what you’re telling me?"

"The what?"

"The Stonebarrow Fell inquiry," Frawley said.

Gideon shook his head. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

"No?" Nate looked at him quizzically. "Okay, have a read." He reached to the shelf behind him, got a newspaper, and tossed it onto the table in front of Gideon, who dropped back into his chair. It was the previous day’s West Dorset Times, and the headline ran across the two leftmost columns.

CRISES MOUNT AT STONEBARROW FELL

Professor Nathan G. Marcus, the outspoken and controversial director of the archaeological excavation at Stonebarrow Fell (Charmouth) is set for his most critical test thus far.

The Times has learned that the Wessex Antiquarian Society (WAS) and the New York-based Horizon Foundation for Anthropological Research, which cosponsor the expedition, will shortly conduct a joint inquiry, to be held in Charmouth, into charges against Professor Marcus of maladministration and unprofessional behavior. The charges stem from a confidential letter of complaint sent by the WAS to the Horizon Foundation.

The secret letter, of which the Times has managed to obtain a copy, protests Professor Marcus’s "animadversions upon the Society in particular and English archaeology in general." It also alleges that "his unsubstantiated and incredible claims regarding a Mycenaean settlement of southern England discredit all concerned and tarnish the reputation of archaeology itself." Further, the unprecedented letter expresses "gave reservations about Professor Marcus’s competence and objectivity."

Professor Marcus, in a statement to the Times, said that his claims are consistent with the facts, and that "the Wessex Antiquarian Society has been out to get me from Day One…They won’t admit the obvious truth even when the d-n thing stares them in the face, just because an American came up with it. Look, I’m glad they’ve got a lot of practice eating their own words, because I’m going to dump a big plateful right in front of them."

These charges and countercharges fly amidst growing rumours of an astonishing and sensational new discovery at Stonebarrow Fell; one that will lend credence to Professor Marcus’s unorthodox theories. When queried about these rumors, the American scholar would only smile.

The expected arrival on the scene of Professor Gideon P. Oliver, an internationally known authority on skeletal analysis and reconstruction, is believed by informed sources to suggest that the alleged new discovery consists of one or more human skeletons. Professor Oliver, it is believed, will play a significant role in the inquiry into his countryman’s behaviour.

Gideon stared at the last paragraph a second time, then dropped the paper and looked up.

"How in the hell did I get involved? How could the… the…" He glanced at the masthead. "…the West Dorset Times even know I was coming? Nobody knew we were going to Charmouth."

This was virtually true. Gideon had talked about it with his old friend and teacher Abe Goldstein, but Abe was living in quiet retirement in Sequim, Washington, six thousand miles away. No one else could possibly know. They had not even made reservations at a Charmouth hotel, trusting instead to plentiful vacancies in the off-season.

"I’ll be damned," he said. "Nate, I give you my word I don’t have anything to do with any inquiry. I didn’t even know there was one."

Again there was a burdensome silence. Against the one small window an unseasonable bluebottle fly buzzed and thumped sluggishly. Nate, who had been studying Gideon closely all the time he’d been reading, appeared to come to an abrupt decision.

"Okay, okay, I believe you. I’m sorry, pal, maybe I’m getting paranoid." He toyed with the old dagger blade, picking at the rough, green patina with thin, hairy fingers. "That damn WAS. They’ll do anything to make me look bad. I’ll bet anything they’re behind it."

Paranoid, Frawley had said, and now Nate had said it too. Gideon began to wonder if there wasn’t something to it. He glanced at Frawley and was met with the sort of knowing look that is generally said to be "fraught with meaning."

"Nate," Gideon said, "you know the WAS is a serious group of archaeologists. I don’t think-"

"Don’t give me that bullshit. Dammit, Gideon, I’ve got them so shook up with what I’m finding here they’d do anything to get me canned-so they can have all the credit for good old England. Bastards!" His hand closed around the blade, and for a second Gideon thought he was going to ram the fragile implement into the table, but he only gripped it a moment and tossed it down. "Hell, what am I getting so excited about? It’s the same old story." He grinned suddenly, his teeth very white against his dark face, and tapped the newspaper. "I gave ’em as good as I got, though, huh?"

"Yes, it’s great to see you out there winning friends for America."

Nate laughed, throwing back his head and barking at the ceiling. It was too loud and it went on too long, and in his throat the arteries stood out like fat worms. Again Gideon found Frawley’s doleful eyes fixed meaningfully on him.

Nate leaned over and slapped Gideon’s arm. "Let me tell you, pal, I’m really glad you’re not with them. I’d hate to think you were on their side."

Gideon returned his smile but was obscurely troubled. Were there sides? Whose side was he on? Nate’s theory was cockeyed and deserved refutation, no question about that, but the man had once been close to him, and Gideon couldn’t help being concerned. Abe Goldstein had been right, as usual; Nate Marcus was in need of being kept out of trouble.