Murder in the Queen's Armes

look—'

'That,” said Robyn, “is ample, and quite instructive. Obviously, Professor Marcus was so intent on proving his fantastic theory that he disregarded the signs that point so unequivocally to this object's being a fraud.'

Arbuckle, who had been blinking and frowning behind the thick, none-too-clean lenses of his glasses, appeared to suddenly understand. “Unless,” he murmured in a shocked whisper to Nate, “you buried it there in the first place.” He took a backward step away from Nate, as if afraid of catching something.

'Buried it?” Nate repeated blankly. “Why would... You mean planted it? Me? You're out of your mind!'

Arbuckle held up both hands. “All right, Nate,” he said quickly, “I didn't mean to accuse you.” He lowered his chin and went doggedly on. “But somebody must have, er, planted it.'

Nate stared hard at the shrinking Arbuckle, then at Gideon, and spoke through compressed lips. “Okay. All right. I blew it. You're right, I should have seen the signs. Somebody must have buried...No,” he said slowly, “that's impossible. What would be the point? How could they know anyone would find it? I could have missed it easy...It could have lain there a hundred years. It wasn't even near the trenches...'

'First things first,” Robyn interjected. “We're here today to look into whether Professor Marcus has been conducting his research in a sufficiently professional manner.” In an undertone he added, “As for myself, frankly, I consider that this latest . . . happening...makes the question moot.'

Nate's dark face turned a mottled red, but before he could respond, Abe stepped in, with a quick glance toward the enthralled students. “And I think,” he said mildly, but in a tone that encouraged no argument, “this discussion should be continued in private, with only the parties concerned.” He grasped Nate's arm and steered him in the direction of the shed. Nate went unresistingly, and Arbuckle and Robyn, after an exchange of grim looks, moved to follow, as did Frawley.

'Gideon,” Abe called over his shoulder, “maybe you'll finish up with the skull so we can send it back to where it belongs?'

An embarrassed silence descended as soon as the others left, until Gideon spoke.

'I'll need some tools.'

'I'll get them,” Sandra said hastily. “We keep a toolbox at the excavation.” She trotted elegantly off.

'I can get a packing crate,” Leon offered.

'I'll go with you,” Barry jumped in. All of them were eager to get away from the scene of disaster, and no wonder.

When Sandra returned, Gideon, also wishing himself elsewhere, took an angled dental pick, a toothbrush, and a small paintbrush, and quickly worked loose the dirt around the bone. By the time the crate arrived, he was done. He lifted the calvarium with both hands, settled it among the Styrofoam peanuts, and closed the lid.

'Will you see that this goes to Dr. Arbuckle?'

'You bet, Gideon,” Leon said.

There was another awkward silence until Barry literally shook himself into speech. “Mr. Robyn gave me his keys for you to use to get out of the gate,” he said, producing a leather key case. “He said you could leave them with the guy at the Queen's Armes.'

Gideon's mood was gloomier than ever as he crested the hill and started down. At the fence he found a slender young man in a fawn-colored suit delicately rattling the lock.

'I've been calling out for half an hour,” he said when Gideon got within speaking distance. “I was beginning to fear I'd have to scale the thing.” He smiled genteely, the English sort of smile that raises the inside corners of the eyebrows and wrinkles the forehead charmingly. “It would have been hard on the suit.'

'It would also have been trespassing,” Gideon said, not disposed to banter.

Unabashed, the young man announced, “Curtis Honett. I'm with the West Dorset Times.'

The West Dorset Times. The newspaper that seemed to know so much. “Sorry to disappoint you,” Gideon said, slipping out and relocking the gate behind him, “but I think Professor Marcus will be canceling his press conference.'

'What press conference?” Honett moved closer. “I understand that the bone missing from the Dorchester Museum turned up here today. Is that true?'

Gideon barely managed to hide his astonishment. “Where did you hear that?'

The reporter drew his motile, auburn eyebrows together. “It isn't true? Mr. Chantry was certain—'

'Mr. Chantry?'

'My boss, the editor. He's been working personally on the Stonebarrow story.'

'And just where does Mr. Chantry get his information?'

'You wouldn't want me to divulge our sources, would you?” He grinned brightly. “So it is true then?'

'Sorry,” Gideon said, “I'm afraid ‘no comment’ is the most you're going to get from me.” He turned to head down the path. “And don't quote me on that.” Then, relenting slightly, he added. “You'll want to talk to Dr. Arbuckle of Horizon or Mr. Robyn of the WAS on this. But I think they're going to be tied up for a while.'

'THE West Dorset Times,' said a cultivated voice, “at your service.'

'Good morning. May I speak with Mr. Chantry, please?'

'One moment. What name shall I say?'

'Gideon Oliver.'