He really was depressed. Since when did digs remind him of graves? He realized as he plodded on that it was more than the weather, more than even the murder, that was making him so gloomy and apprehensive . . . something entirely different. For an idea was taking unwelcome root, an unsettling idea that he knew exactly what Nate's “astonishing and sensational” discovery was. And he wished to hell it had popped up before this, when he might have done something about it.
They stopped at a small rectangular canvas-draped pit a hundred feet from the main trenches, in a rough area of bushes, vines, and chalky rock. Nate began at once.
'As all of you know,” he said in a shrill, rapid monotone, “the Wessex culture has long been viewed as a manifestation of the pan-European trade and travel of the Bronze Age, and is believed to have arrived in Britain in slow stages from Britany—this notwithstanding the three hundred-year difference in radiocarbon dates between Breton and Wessex graves. But be that as it may...'
It was evident that Nate had prepared this speech—he didn't talk like this naturally—and that he was hardly listening to himself. Gideon studied him; unless he was shamming—and his brash, outspoken personality didn't lend itself to pretense—he was genuinely upset. Although he'd spoken rather harshly of Randy's lackadaisical ways, it was apparent that the news of his death had stunned him.
'It is also well known that the Bretons were and are a race of round-heads,” Nate droned on. “Of brachycephals, as Dr. Oliver would say.” At the sound of his name, Gideon snapped to attention. “And for that matter, the immediate predecessors of the Wessex people, the Beakers, were also notably brachycephalic. Thus, we have always assumed the
Wessex also to be round-headed. Also so they are, in the later Wessex sites.
'But here,” Nate said, and now the old, challenging electricity crackled in his speech; his eyes came up from the canvas-covered pit to engage those of the others. “Here at Stonebarrow Fell we've got the earliest known Wessex site—maybe the very first. What would you say if we found someone here who wasn't brachycephalic at all, but
Gideon's heart seemed to flop and plummet. Now there wasn't any question about where Nate was leading, incredible as it seemed. The excavation crew fidgeted in subdued excitement. All, that was, except Frawley, who, with his head down and his hands clasped very much like a grave-side mourner's, chewed somberly on his cheek. Abe and Arbuckle stood there looking stoic and patient, and Robyn's sole reaction appeared to be the raising by one millimeter of his left eyebrow.
'What would you say,” Nate went on, seemingly made more contentious by the lack of response, “if the guy buried here wasn't just long-headed, but was
Without waiting for a reply, he reached down, pulled up the canvas, and flung it away from him. It sailed directly into Barry, who grabbed it, snickered nervously, blushed, and stood there holding it.
'There,” Nate said throatily.
Everyone's eyes were riveted on the two-by-three-foot pit. Nate, seemingly unable to stand the momentary silence, burst into a low, agitated babble. “Would you believe that was sticking right out of the ground—part of it anyway? Huh? Abe? Gideon? Englishmen have been walking over it for a hundred years, probably, and nobody ever noticed it!” Here there was a lancing, triumphant glance at Robyn. “The ground around it was weathered away, and you could barely see it. I almost didn't see it myself; I just stumbled onto it....'
The skull fragment was in the precise middle of the rectangle. The rounded eminence of the right parietal, Gideon could see, would indeed have projected a fraction of an inch above the surface of the ground, but no one— except perhaps a particularly alert anthropologist—would have taken it for anything but a rock. It had been dug— dissected out, really—with the scrupulous care typical of Nate Marcus, so that it lay partially embedded in a two- inch-high shelf of earth, like the museum exhibit it had once been.
It was Pummy, all right.
Gideon couldn't think of any way to say it other than to say it. “Nate, that's the Poundbury calvarium... the skull fragment missing from the Dorchester Museum.'
Nate's expression went from self-satisfied to blank to furious in two seconds. The flesh around his lips grayed and seemed to sink into his face. Gideon observed this transparently genuine reaction of astonishment and indignation with relief. Nate was as honestly surprised as everyone else.
'Bullshit!” he shouted, as soon as he could speak. “You don't know what the hell you're talking about!” He turned on Gideon, his fists clenched at his side, his body tightened as if he was going to spring at him. Gideon, used to Nate's irritating habit of automatically hitting out when challenged, didn't take offense.
'It's Poundbury, without a doubt—” Gideon began.
'Bullshit, bullshit—'
Abe reached over and patted Nate on the shoulder. “Now, Nathan,” he said mildly.
Robyn's voice cut icily through. “Professor Marcus, will you kindly keep your observations, cogent as they are, to yourself for just a few moments? Oliver, are you quite positive?'
'Completely.'
Nevertheless, Gideon stepped into the trench and knelt to look more closely at the fragment. He blew away a thin layer of chalky dust. “You can see that it's been placed here recently,” he said. “Look at the color: that same amber tone all over. If a part of it had actually been sticking out, exposed to the elements, it would have been darker than the rest, wouldn't it? More weathered, too.'
'You're nuts,” Nate said. “What are you talking about? I don't believe this.'
Abe shushed him gently, his hand on his arm, and Nate subsided with a strained laugh.
Carefully, with his forefinger, Gideon brushed at the earth around the bone. “And it wouldn't have mineralized to this brownish color in such a chalky, white soil. Besides that, if it had really been here for over three thousand years, the soil would fit around it like a plaster mold, which it obviously doesn't.” He brought his face even closer to it. “And look, the earth's compacted here—and here—from digging a hole and then forcing the bone into it. And I think...yes, I can see where the identification number's been scraped away and the bone's been stained to make it
