Murder in the Queen's Armes

'Oh, aye,” Sergeant Fryer said, as if that explained it.

When he asked Gideon how long he would be in Char-mouth and where he could be reached afterward, Gideon could tell that he did so more out of politeness than relevance.

If he had any duty in the matter, he had now performed it, yet he still felt unsettled and on edge. He picked up the telephone book again, turned to “Hotels and Guest Houses,” and began dialing. He got Nate on the third try, at the Cormorant.

'Nate, I was just calling to see if there was any news.'

'News? What kind of news?'

'About Randy Alexander.'

'Randy?” Nate said in a sort of disgusted disbelief. “Who knows where the schmuck is? I've had it with him.'

'You're not worried? The paper seemed to think he might be dead.'

'Oh, come on... the Times? They jump on everything they can to make the dig look screwed up. I told you, they've got some kind of vendetta against me.'

'Well, what do you think happened to him?'

'I think he just got bored and took off again. Probably rented a motorcycle somewhere and went tooling around the country.'

'Again, did you say?” He felt as if someone had lifted a weight from his shoulders.

'That's what I said. He once did it for two months, never mind two weeks, in Missouri—had to make up a whole semester, not that he gave a damn. And then he did it for two or three days during our first week here. But this does it. He's through. He can go find somebody else to bug. Hey, how'd you like a nice new graduate student?'

'No thanks. Nate, that same day he disappeared—'

'Took off,” Nate said peevishly.

'He made an appointment with me for five o'clock that day. He said he wanted to tell me something he didn't seem to feel comfortable talking to you about. Do you know what that was about?'

'No, what was it about?'

'That's what I'm asking you.'

'How should I know?'

'Okay, never mind. I guess I was worried about nothing.'

'You sure were, buddy. Listen, Gid, this guy isn't one of your typical graduate students. He's a drifter, a bum. He's just playing around in school. You know what he really wanted to be? A pitcher. The guy spent six years in the minors. He was a southpaw, supposed to have a great fast ball, until he wore his arm out. Then he was a drummer in a rock band. Then he claims he was a mercenary in Africa—'

'And now he wants to be an archaeologist?'

'Don't ask me, man. You know what he does back home? He rides with one of these so-called outlaw gangs— all middle-aged nerds, like him. You should see his chopper—it's about twenty feet long; you practically have to lay on your back to ride it.'

'Is he making it at Gelden?'

'Well, he's not really that dumb,” Nate allowed grudgingly. “He can read and write, more or less, and he's loaded; his old man's Alexander Toilet Tissue—not that the old guy isn't always yelling about cutting him off. Anyway, that's enough to get into Gelden—in fact, never mind the read-and-write bit. I voted against admitting the guy in the first place, but I got overruled. But this time I'm kicking his ass out of the department. The dean can stick him in classical lit if he want to. Look, why are we talking about him? What's the big deal?'

'Well, he just seemed so anxious to talk to me.'

'I'm telling you the guy likes to put people on. He really made an idiot out of Jack Frawley once; he even tried to do it to me. Forget him, will you? Hey, you're gonna be there Thursday, aren't you? Ten o'clock?'

'That's why I'm here. Nate, are you still feeling good about this? Are you sure you don't want me to have a private look before the board meets? I could come up tomorrow.'

'You kidding, you want to ruin the suspense? No, you be there at ten, and bring your calipers and stuff. I'm gonna make you famous.'

Gideon hung up, not as relieved as he might have been. For one thing, his concern over Nate's coming disaster had been freshened, even though the man was so damn confident. Could there have been a Mycenaean migration? Could Nate refute the accumulated wisdom of the specialists? Gideon shook his head, wishing he knew more about Bronze Age anthropology. All he'd be able to do Thursday would be a conventional skeletal examination and analysis; someone else would have to do the interpretation. Deep down, he wasn't sorry. He didn't want to be the one to tell Nate he'd made a fool of himself.

Something else was bothering him. Despite everything Nate had said, Gideon still had an unsettling sense of foreboding about the fate of Randy Alexander. And it wasn't simply the unkept appointment; it was the very atmosphere of Stonebarrow Fell—an unhealthy stew of tension, dislike, pretense....

He stood up and stretched. He was getting a little paranoid himself. Time to get his mind on other things and go on down to say hello to the archaeologists in the lounge; did he really know an Arkle, Barkle, or Carbuncle?

When he pushed open the Dutch door of the Tudor room, it was the slender, well-dressed man who rose, smiling.