Murder in the Queen's Armes

They settled on “demonstrated.” Chantry changed the word with a heavy blue pencil, made the required grammatical adjustments, and placed the sheet in a smudged, dog-eared folder, which he flung lightly into a wooden box labeled Egress in Gothic lettering.

'Now exactly what is it I can do for you?'

He peered sharply at Gideon over the tops of a pair of crescent-shaped reading glasses that sat precariously low on his nose, and out from under raised, meager eyebrows. The effect was at once shrewd and humorously sleepy, benign and obliquely malicious; W. C. Fields playing Benjamin Franklin. His head, bald except for a few strands lovingly combed from left to right across the top, was tilted alertly forward. Ralph Chantry looked as froglike as any man Gideon had ever seen. It would have been only faintly surprising to see him part his wide, dry lips, uncoil a ribbon of tongue, and haul in a fly.

'What I'd like to know, Mr. Chantry, is where you get your information on the Stonebarrow dig.'

'I'm afraid that's privileged. It's accurate, is it not?'

'Yes, it's accurate, but I'd still like to know.'

'Afraid not, dear man. Isn't done. The press in America has the same convention, I understand.” He smiled amiably. “Would you care for some tea? Takes the chill out of one.'

'No, thanks. Look, Mr. Chantry, a hardworking and dedicated'—Gideon couldn't quite bring himself to say “brilliant'—'anthropologist has just had his reputation ruined up there—'

'As well it should have been!” Chantry cried with vigor. He lifted a dripping tea bag from his cup with a spoon and dashed it into an ashtray. “The man was given a scientific responsibility of no mean proportions, and he violated his trust. He perpetrated theft and fraud and God knows what else, all to aggrandize himself and support his vile theory. Mycenaeans indeed!” He pushed his Egress box crossly forward and back to show his indignation.

'I'm not so sure about all that,” Gideon said. “I'm starting to wonder if he wasn't victimized himself.'

'Really? How very unpleasant. But see here; if you're implying....Just what is it you're implying?'

'I'm not really sure,” Gideon said truthfully. “But something's wrong.” He leaned forward, his elbow on Chantry's desk. “For one thing, you knew I was going to be at the site—and printed it—almost before I did. I hadn't thought anyone knew.'

Chantry waggled his eyebrows and smiled again. His teeth were tiny, pearly little nubbins like two neat and gleaming rows of pygmy corn. “Superior journalism, dear boy.'

Gideon laughed in spite of himself. “Maybe so, but there's more than journalism involved, I think. Let me ask you this: When you sent your reporter up there yesterday, did you tell him exactly what time to go, or was that just an accident?'

Chantry considered, tapping his teacup gently against his upper teeth. “My informant told me that ten o'clock Thursday morning would be a propitious time to call.'

'Propitious,” Gideon said. “Yes, if what you're trying to do is ruin Nate Marcus.” He wasn't sure just when he'd swung over wholeheartedly to Julie's theory that Nate had been set up, but he had.

'Really!” Chantry said pleasantly. “Do let's be reasonable, shall we? I'm sure I don't know what you're going on about. Whyever should I wish to ruin Professor Marcus?'

'I don't think you do, but I think someone could be using you.” That had a foolishly theatrical ring to it, but he plowed on. “Don't you think it's awfully coincidental that your informant told you to send a reporter at the precise moment when everything was happening at once? If he'd gotten through the gate, he would have been right at the critical point, the...'

'Denouement?” Chantry offered.

'Exactly. Amazingly propitious, wouldn't you say?'

'No, I wouldn't.” Chantry was firm. “I'd go as far as ‘serendipitous'—in the sense of turning up unanticipated consequences—but certainly not as far as ‘amazingly’ propitious. This sort of thing happens all the time in journalism. You fish for pilchard and you catch a sole.'

'Mr. Chantry,” Gideon said, “I suppose you know about Randy Alexander by now?'

'You mean that he was murdered? Yes. I was terribly, terribly sorry to learn that.” He sounded as if he meant it. “And I assure you that if there is any way I can help in that matter, I certainly shall.'

'Well, I think the skull and the murder may be related.'

Chantry sat very still. “You think? Is there some reason for so thinking?'

'No, not really; not yet. But they have to be. It's too wild a combination of events for them to be unrelated.'

The editor studied him for a long time. “I'm afraid I don't agree with you. I've seen stranger combinations of events, quite unrelated.” He put his cup on his desk and leaned over. “Really, I am sorry,” he said civilly, “but unless you come up with more convincing evidence, I simply cannot at this point reveal my informant, and that must be my final world. I'm sure you understand. Now, do let's have a drink. I have some excellent sherry. And are you free for lunch?'

The interview was over. “No, sorry,” Gideon said, standing up. “I'm meeting my wife. Thanks for your time.” Then he added, a little grudgingly, “And I do understand your position.'

'I'm so glad,” Chantry said with a serene and froggy smile.

'EVEN if you didn't learn anything from Mr. Chantry, it was worth coming to Lyme Regis for this!” Julie said between mouthfuls. “Yum!'

Gideon laughed. “I always liked a girl with a healthy appetite.'

'Well, you've got one.” She eyed the little jam pot, empty for a second time. “Do we dare ask for another refill?'