Murder in the Queen's Armes

Robyn was the faster reader of the two, and while he waited for his colleague to finish, he lit a cigarette and puffed languidly, gazing thoughtfully into the fire.

When Arbuckle finally finished, he looked up slowly. “Where did they get all that information? How could they find out about the letter?'

'The irrepressible Professor Marcus, I suspect,” Robyn said, “although how he found out I haven't the foggiest notion. In any case, the article is certainly accurate enough, isn't it?'

'Not exactly,” Gideon said, putting down his glass. “It implied that I was here as part of your inquiry, and I'm not.'

Robyn tapped his cigarette into an ashtray. “I meant as far as the important aspects are concerned.'

Gideon, not notably slow to take offense when warranted, wondered if it were warranted now. He looked up sharply, but Robyn's expression was coolly benign.

'Of course,” the Englishman went on, “knowing you were coming, they would naturally assume your visit was connected to our inquiry. Don't you think so?'

'I suppose so.” Gideon sipped his Scotch. “The question is, how did they know I was coming at all? I barely knew myself.'

'I'm sure I have no idea.'

'Well, I sure didn't know you were coming,” Arbuckle said. He placed his glass on the table and looked doubtfully at Gideon. “Why are you here?'

Gideon shook his head and laughed. “Everybody's suspicious of me. Honestly, it's not very mysterious. Mostly because I'm trying to take a peaceful, inconspicuous English honeymoon. As for Stonebarrow Fell, I'd heard that Nate was having difficulties, and I thought I might lend a little moral support, so I went up to see him.'

'A sympathetic compatriot in a strange land?” Robyn asked. “That sort of thing?'

'That's about it. And when I was there, Nate asked me if I'd come back when he takes the wraps off that find of his. I'd like to do that, if it's all right with you. I might be of some help.'

Gideon caught a small negative shake of Robyn's head and saw him form the words “Well, I...,” but Arbuckle spoke up more loudly.

'I think that'd be great,” he said sincerely. “You're an old friend of his, aren't you? Maybe you could talk some sense into him. Don't you think so, Frederick?'

'Yes,” said Robyn, deciding after all not to demur, “I suppose so.'

'I've already tried to talk some sense into him,” Gideon said, “I wasn't too successful.'

'But it isn't too late,” Arbuckle said, leaning forward with his typical earnest gravity. “Gideon, this isn't an inquiry in the usual sense. No one's disputing any facts. It's my responsibility, and Frederick's, to simply talk with Marcus and get him to...well, to grow up and start acting like the first-rate professional he is.” He pulled at his beer, set it down, and frowned with myopic ardor. “However, if he won't do that, we will certainly relieve him and close down the dig. But I just can't believe it'll come to that!'

'Is that true, Paul? The outcome's still open?'

It was Robyn who answered. “My dear Oliver,” he said lighting another cigarette, “Arbuckle and I are not a couple of hit men hired to perform a character assassination. We represent, as you well know, two of the most prestigious of archaeological research organizations. Both of us, I should add, were firm supporters, in the face of some rather severe opposition, of Professor Marcus's original application for permission and funding.'

He paused to taste his sherry, then pressed his lips together, holding the glass to his temple, as if listening to it. “Quite nice,” he said, “although as olorosos go, perhaps the least bit thin.'

Gideon doubted that he could taste anything at all. The cigarette in his other hand was his third one.

'But,” Robyn went on at his own leisurely pace, “how can we ignore the bizarre nature of his recent statements?...Well, you saw what was attributed to him in the newspaper. There are, I assure you, other even more outrageous and offensive examples.” He crossed one leg over the other, first arranging an already impeccable trouser crease. “Nevertheless, I think I can speak for both of us in saying we would consider our mission successful if the man would simply give us his promise to restrain his outbursts and stick to the business of pursuing the excavation—which I must admit he does very well. Wouldn't you agree with all that, Arbuckle?'

'What?” Arbuckle asked with a start. He had been staring into the flames. “Sorry, I guess I was thinking about my own dig.'

Gideon smiled. When Paul was involved in research, his one-track mind never strayed very far from it.

'Got something interesting going in France?” Gideon asked.

'I do. I sure do.” He thrust his stocky body forward, twisting his glass in stubby fingers. All at once, he was more alert, more alive, “It's in Burgundy, near Dijon— Gideon, it's been fluorine-dated at 220,000 b.c.—Middle Pleistocene! Just think, it's as old as Swanscombe or Stein-hem! We've got Acheulian handaxes, cleavers... What are you laughing at?'

'You,” Gideon said, “It's the first time this afternoon I've seen you really come alive. Poor Paul; there you are in the middle of a great dig, with the chance to learn something about the earliest Homo sapiens, and you have to break it off to get involved in a minor squabble over the Bronze Age.'

'Really,” Robyn murmured in the manner of an actor delivering an aside, “I'd hardly call it a minor squabble.'

Arbuckle looked at Gideon, but it was hard to tell what he was thinking. The firelight bouncing opaquely off his thick glasses made his never-too-mobile face look more wooden than ever. Finally he laughed, something he didn't do often.

'You're right. Who cares about the Bronze Age? All I want to do is get this thing over with and get back to Dijon. And don't tell me you wouldn't feel just the same.'

'I would,” Gideon said, meaning it.