Murder in the Queen's Armes

'All right,” Gideon said, “I have three reasons for thinking the bones were broken before death.” Lists of three, he had found, as had many a professor before him, were almost mystically persuasive, especially if counted on the fingers.

'One'—he ticked it off with his forefinger—'there are no other fractures, aside from the bone and cartilage in the throat, and no signs of the kind of injuries that bouncing down a cliff face or being tossed against a pier might produce. Two'—two fingers rapped Bagshawe's desk—'the existence of an antemortem nightstick fracture fits in with the probable facts, because it explains how someone might have stood in front of a husky, healthy Randy Alexander and strangled him. And three'—both of the other men watched Gideon's hand to see him tick it off, which it did—'three, the upper and lower segments of the broken bones overlap in exactly the way they would be expected to if jerked out of position by a spasm of the flexor digitorum profundis, the flexor pollicis longus, and the pronator quadratus.'

He might have said “forearm muscles,” but he had shifted into a sort of pedantic high gear for the moment, and he let it pass. “Had he been dead already, the muscles would have lacked tonus, and they wouldn't have pulled the bones out of place.” Gideon paused to catch his breath.

'Excellent,” Merrill said. “Clear thinking.'

Bagshawe pulled ruminatively at his pipe and said, “Umm, umm.'

'Of course,” Gideon went on, “we can't absolutely exclude the possibility that the bones could have been broken later and somehow gotten shifted into those positions, but it's pretty unlikely. I think the fractures occurred before death—just before death—and the arm must have swelled quickly and been wedged into position inside his sleeve. He was wearing a leather jacket, wasn't he?'

'Yes, a leather jacket,” Bagshawe murmured. “Well, well, that tells us quite a lot about our victim. Now all we need to do is to find out about our murderer.'

'For starters,” Gideon said, “we know that he was lefthanded—like Randy.'

'Why, that's right,” Merrill interjected. “The fractures. I see. Of course.'

'Well, I don't see,” Bagshawe rumbled.

'The nightstick fractures,” Gideon said. “They were in his right arm. And if he threw up his right hand to protect his head, then almost certainly he was warding off a blow delivered with his assailant's left hand.'

'Ah, I see,” said Bagshawe. “Yes, that could be. Unless, of course, the assailant delivered a back-handed blow— with his right arm. Or unless Alexander was attacked from behind, say, and just happened to twist to his own left to look around when he heard someone behind him. Then, of course, it would be his own left hand that was flung up in any event, would it not?'

'No, Inspector,” Merrill said. “I'll have to support Professor Oliver on this. I do see your point, but I'd say that nine out of ten times—I speak from my own experience, you understand—a nightstick fracture of the right arm indicates a left-handed attacker, and vice versa.'

'Well,” Bagshawe muttered, “I expect you're right. Still, in my opinion, it's a bit premature to rule out other possibilities.” He cocked his head slowly to one side. “Something's just occurred to me...Do you suppose there's any merit in this? Since he was wearing a leather jacket, I wonder if there might not be some sign of the weapon on his sleeve: an imbedded fragment of wood or metal, perhaps, or an indentation that shows the shape of the object. What do you think?'

'It's been in the water for weeks,” Gideon said. “Would there be anything after all that time?'

'Probably not,” Bagshawe said with a sigh. “Still, I think I'll suggest the forensic lads have a look. No stone unturned, you know. Well, well.” He put his pipe down and stood up. “Thank you, Professor, it's been most enlightening. I'll go up to the excavation this afternoon and tell them about poor Alexander. Until then, I'd appreciate it if you'd keep all this to yourself.'

Gideon nodded and got up, too, and was afforded the novel sensation of seeing his own sizable hand engulfed in an even larger one.

'May I send you back?” Bagshawe asked.

'No, no,” Merrill said, jumping up. “My pleasure.'

'Fine,” Bagshawe said. “Fine. Oh, Professor, while you're here...I understand from Sergeant Fryer that Mr. Alexander made an appointment to tell you something but that he never kept it. Would you mind going over the particulars once more?'

Head down, arms folded, leaning against his desk, he listened closely while Gideon described the incident. “And,” he said, “did anyone overhear him make this appointment with you?'

'I don't think so. We were out in the open, and no one was around. Well, Nate Marcus saw us talking—he came looking for Randy—but he couldn't have heard what we were saying. At least I don't think so.'

'And what was his reaction.?'

'None, as far as I remember. Or, on second thought, maybe he seemed a little irritated. He asked if it was a private discussion.'

'Ah. And did anyone else overhear you?'

Gideon thought for a moment. “We walked by the trench together. I suppose that any of the three of them— Sandra, Barry, Leon—could have seen us, or maybe heard us. But we were just chatting at that point. Randy waited until we were out of sight before he got serious.'

'As if he didn't want anyone else to hear?'

'That was the impression I got.'

'And Professor Frawley? Where was he during all this?'

'We left him in the shed. He couldn't have heard us.'

'Ah,” Bagshawe said again, with more relish. “So of them all, only Professor Marcus might have overheard, and he seemed...irritated, I believe you said?'