Murder in the Queen's Armes

In a few seconds another voice came on, whispery and apologetic. No, Mr. Ralph Chantry was not in his office at the moment. No, no one else was familiar with the Stonebarrow matter. No, no one was sure just when he would return, but tomorrow was likely. Could Mr. Oliver try again tomorrow? Gideon replaced the receiver and leaned back in the leather armchair, staring out unseeingly at the ragged fog that obscured the hillside he'd come down half an hour before.

He wondered moodily about the inquiry still going on in the bleak little shed on the fell. Whatever the explanation for the amazing “happening,” as Robyn had called it, Nate's career was finished. Even Abe's ability to smooth rough waters was unlikely to do much good, given the cold look in Robyn's eye and the equally dark, if less penetrating, one in Arbuckle's. Whether or not Nate had planted the skull himself—and Gideon couldn't believe that he had—was immaterial. Nate was in charge of the dig and had to bear responsibility for everything that occurred on it. And, of course, he had personally done all the work on the calvarium himself, and had been braying about it in his usual obnoxious manner for weeks. There was no way he could ever possibly live it down.

'Gideon,” Julie said, “I think it's time for you to forget about Stonebarrow Fell. How about a hike in the country? I've got a booklet that shows some local walks.'

'Looks like rain.'

'So we'll take our ponchos. You know, you can still hike along some of those old right-of-way footpaths that have been there for centuries.'

'It's been a wet winter; they'll be awfully muddy.'

She laughed and plopped herself into his lap. Her arms went about his neck. “My, you're feeling adventurous, aren't you?'

He smiled and clasped his hands around her waist. “I guess I'm a little mopey. I don't like thinking about what's going to happen to Nate, even if he brought it on himself. And the murder . . .'

'You need a hike,” she said firmly, “and you are going to get one.'

He had continued to stare out the window, but now he

put his hands on her shoulders, set her straighter on his knees, and looked at her face. She was smiling down at him, her black, luminous eyes so lit with love that his breath caught unexpectedly in his chest. How had he ever done without her? If she were to leave, the hole in his life would be so vast....

'Yes, ma'am,” he said. “Where will we hike to?'

” ‘Wootton Fitzpaine, a tiny village a few miles from Charmouth,’ “ she said, reading from a booklet, “ ‘and one of the vicinity's most popular rural walks.’ “

'And why Wootton Fitzpaine in particular?'

'Because,” she said, “it has such a nice name.'

He rose from the chair, lifting her in his arms as he did so, pleased with the solid weight of her. “I can't imagine a better reason.'

THE walk to Wootton Fitzpaine began, according to Scenic Dorset Walks, only a block from The Queen's Armes, at the opening to a rough and muddy track—two wheel ruts, actually—laughably signposted Barr's Lane. The track ran for about an eighth of a mile, forming a narrow alley bounded on either side by crude, head-high stone walls of some antiquity. At the end of this lane a stile led into open meadows, but just before this stile the wall on the left side gave way to a sturdy, seven-foot-high chain- link fence that enclosed an extensive dog run at the back of a neat, thatch-roofed house.

As they were about to push through the stile to get into the countryside, they were astounded by a roar so loud that Gideon at first thought it must be a caged and furious lion inside the house. Momentarily petrified, they stood with their hands frozen on the stile.

When he saw it, Gideon thought at first it was a lion—a long-legged nightmare lion —but it wasn't. It was a dog.

Huge, malevolent, and bellowing—'barking” wasn't the word for it—it came tearing around the side of the house, racing toward them with death in its red eyes.

Instinctively, Gideon stepped in front of Julie as the thing bounded wildly against the fence. The animal, which must have known from experience that it couldn't get at them, gave it its best nonetheless. Raging and slavering, it leaped again and again at the shuddering fence, its forelegs as high as Gideon's head, its thick chest on a level with his own.

'Is that a dog?” Julie asked in a small voice, peeking around his shoulder, and making a move to get out from behind him. He could see fingers of color returning to her cheeks and had no doubt that his own face was also on the pale side.

'I don't know what else. The Hound of the Baskervilles, maybe.'

From the house behind the dog came a petulant call. “For heaven's sake, Bowser, be quiet!'

Gideon and Julie looked at each other. Bowser

A stocky man in late middle age, with a military bearing, a gray, bristling military mustache, and a sandy toupee, came grumbling from the back door.

'Be quiet, I said!” The dog, with bad grace, reluctantly stopped trying to devour them and instead satisfied itself with ferocious glaring and panting.

The man approached the animal and grasped it firmly by its wide collar. Its head, Gideon noted, was not far below the man's shoulders, its neck almost as thick as his waist.

'Hullo,” the man said, smiling crisply. “I'm Colonel Conley. I hope the Beast didn't frighten you.'

'Frighten us?” Gideon said. “Not at all. He was just being friendly.'

The colonel laughed. “Hardly. He'd as soon eat you as look at you. Americans, are you? Out on a walk to Wootton Fitzpaine?'