Murder in the Queen's Armes

teaching anthropology was absurd, so Julie had resigned her position—or rather, taken a leave of absence, just to be on the safe side. They had justified the decision on the grounds that Gideon's salary was the greater of the two, but Gideon suspected that underneath, she really was an old-fashioned wife for whom the husband's career came first. And underneath, Gideon knew very well that he liked it that way, closet chauvinist that he was. At any rate, when they got back from Europe, Julie would face the unenviable prospect of job-hunting; she wasn't old-fashioned enough to want to stay home and take care of him.

That he liked, too, so maybe there was hope for him. On the other hand, what was there he didn't like about her?

'I'm glad I quit,” she said a little timidly. “Being with you is everything to me. You know that, don't you?'

'Yes. I know.” He squeezed her hand, trying to put everything into it.

'Good.” She squeezed back. “Now tell me what that telephone call to the Times was about. And about what happened at Stonebarrow Fell this morning.'

While they walked with loosely linked fingers in a dimly lit wood of mixed beech and pine, he told her.

'That's crazy,” she said. “Why would a reputable archaeologist like Nate Marcus do something as stupid as that? You said he's a little odd, but you never said anything to suggest he wasn't ethical.'

'I think he is ethical, even if his judgment is off sometimes and his mouth is a couple of sizes too big. To tell the truth, I don't think he did plant the thing. But Robyn thinks so; I could see it in his face, and I can't blame him. Paul probably thinks so too, but who can tell with him?'

'Gideon,” she said, “can I ask you something? If your friend Nate is a good archaeologist, the way you keep saying he is in spite of everything, how could he have been fooled? You recognized Poundbury Man right away. Why didn't he?'

'Good question, but you have to remember that I'm a physical anthropologist and he's an archaeologist. He'd heard of Pummy, sure, but he wouldn't know it from any other skull you put in front of him—just the way I might not recognize some famous piece of pottery that he'd spot from a hundred yards away. It's worse for him, really, because all skulls look pretty much alike if they're not your business.'

'But why didn't he recognize the other things—the compaction of the earth, those things....'

'That's harder to explain away. I guess he was so intent on proving his theory, so overjoyed at what he thought was evidence, that he ignored all the signs—refused to let himself see them. It wouldn't be the first time it's happened.'

'I suppose so,” she said doubtfully. It was a while before she spoke again. “But I'm still mixed up. If Nate didn't put it there, who did?'

That was the question, all right. If not Nate, who? Frawley? What could he possibly gain from it? It was Nate's dig, not his, and Frawley didn't go along with the Mycenaean theory anyway. One of the students? For what possible reason? No, the only person who could conceivably benefit from the bogus find was Nate. And Nate, as wacky as he could be sometimes, would never try to pull off something like this. No matter how much he might have changed. Or would be?

They emerged from the trees near the crown of a long green hill that sloped gently away below them, idyllic and inviting, toward another holly-green copse at its base. A soft, cold mist had begun to drift around them—under the trees, they had failed to notice it—and they slipped into their hooded ponchos before continuing.

'You know what I keep wondering?” Gideon asked. “Where the heck is the Times getting its information? They knew about the inquiry, they knew about the skull—'

'Obviously from someone on the dig.'

'No, not so obviously. How could anyone on the dig know I was going to visit the site? Except for you, Abe was the only one who had any idea I was coming, and he certainly didn't call the Times from Sequim, Washington.'

'Are you sure? Have you asked him about it?'

'Of course not.” Then he smiled. “Never mind ‘of course not.’ With Abe, you never know, do you? I'll ask him, but how could he? And why?'

They had gone a third of the way down the hill when the mist congealed into a pelting, freezing downpour as abruptly as if someone had turned on an ice-cold, needle-spray shower.

'Time to go back,” Gideon said unnecessarily. He could hardly hear himself with the hammering of the rain on his hood.

Julie nodded, her face running with water. “Maybe Bowser will be off sleeping in his doghouse in weather like this, and we can sneak by.'

'Doghouse?” Gideon shouted over the rain. “He probably lives in a cave strewn with bloody bones.'

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THIRTEEN

* * * *

WHEREVER Bowser had been, his gigantic nose told him when they'd reached the foot of Barr's Lane, and he came charging viciously through the rain, throwing his heavy body against the wire fence again and again. Gideon had been expecting it this time, but even so, the hairs on the back of his neck went up, and he and Julie moved by the monstrous animal with all due speed.

Chilled through, and with their feet soaked, they had hoped for a hot lunch at the Queen's Armes. Too late they remembered that Hinshore and his wife went to Bridport on Thursdays to do their weekly shopping, so the hotel was deserted.

They had, however, noticed an old, attractive pub, the George, across the street. More in need of hot food than