Murder in the Queen's Armes

'I don't think—'

'Wait, don't say no. I'm in trouble, Gid. That inquiry board is dead set against me. They've already made up their minds. They'll find some way to twist—'

'I don't buy that, Nate. Horizon and the WAS are objective, knowledgeable—'

His protest was waved away. “They're archaeologists, like I am. What do they know about skeletons? Look, man, we could use a good physical anthropologist there; somebody without an ax to grind, someone we all trust— because we sure as hell don't trust each other.'

Gideon shook his head. “Forget it. The last thing I need is to be on a board of inquiry—into your conduct, no less. No, thanks.'

'Listen, all I'm asking you to do is be there, maybe for an hour, when I show them what I have. You know, just be an expert resource; do your thing, give us your opinion.

Call it the way you see it.'

'Nate, I'm on my honeymoon.'

'Okay, let me put it this way.” He looked soberly at Gideon. “I know you think I'm kidding myself, and maybe I am. But I'm not crazy, you know. And what if I'm right? What if the most important Bronze Age find of the century, maybe of any century, is about to pop? I'm asking you to be the first physical anthropologist to look at it. You'd be right there at the grand opening; you'd be the one to do the initial analysis....'

Gideon sighed, then laughed. What anthropologist could say no to that? Besides, it might give him a final chance to help Nate, to keep him from doing anything more foolish than he'd already done. “Well,” he said, “when you put it that way...'

Nate laughed and reached forward to shake hands. As he did so, a cool draft from behind Gideon rustled the papers on the table.

'Oh, sorry. I didn't know you were in conference.'

Nate looked up over Gideon's shoulder. “No problem, Randy, come on in. Gid, this is Randy Alexander, number-one contender for the world's perennial-student title.'

Laughing offhandedly, a big, coarsely good-looking man carrying a paper sack came in. He was about thirty-five, only a few years younger than Nate and Gideon, with longish, curling brown hair, a casual, loose-jointed gait, and an air about him of indolent, somewhat studied dissipation.

'Hiya, Prof. I think I heard of you.'

It was certainly his day for public acclaim, Gideon thought, but even this dubious tribute, the second in an hour, was quickly retracted.

'Or,” Randy said, “maybe I just heard Dr. Marcus talk about you being an old friend.'

'My oldest,” Nate said. “Gideon and I were chugalugging watered-down beer in the UW Rathaus fifteen years ago.'

'No kidding.” Randy went to a metal cabinet near the coffee paraphernalia and, whistling softly, began taking things from the sack and putting them on shelves.

'Did you get everything?” Frawley asked him.

'Yup. Coffee, notepads, mallet, chisels, string, the whole schmear.'

'Well,” Gideon said, rising. “I guess I'll walk on down now.'

Randy turned with surprising speed. “I'll let you through the gate.'

'Hey, Gid... ?” Nate said.

Gideon waited.

'I'm glad to hear you got married again.” He smiled— the old smile Gideon remembered, shy and quick, and unexpectedly elfin in that intense, lean face. “You're the kind of guy who needs to be married, you know that? Congratulations and best of luck. What's her name?'

'Thanks very much, Nate. Her name is Julie.” Gideon was moved; a glimmer of the old Nate had peeked through. “Nate, are you sure you wouldn't like me to take a sort of confidential look—'

'No way, pal. Trust me. See you on the twenty-ninth.'

Outside, the thick fog had moved in. The ocean, the coastline and the surrounding hills were all invisible, and on the fell everything was indistinct and gloomy.

Randy conversed with mumbling indifference as they walked past the other three students, in the pit, but as soon as he and Gideon were shielded by a small, grassy rise he stopped. “Could I talk to you, Dr. Oliver?'

'Sure.'

'It's about this Mycenaean thing. Look, if I tell you something pretty wild, will you promise to keep my name out of it?'

'No, I won't, Randy. If you want to tell me something, go ahead. But no strings.'

Randy's sleepy eyelids lifted. It wasn't the answer he'd expected. “It's really serious. I mean, I think you should know.'

'I think you're talking to the wrong man. You probably know a lot more about the Bronze Age than I do.'

'But this whole Mycenaean thing, it's all screwed up—'

'Randy, have you talked to Nate? His bark's a lot worse—'