Murder in the Queen's Armes

They were in the Goose House, a tiny, white, storybook cottage near the bottom of the crooked, climbing main street. They sat at a window looking down on the quiet beach, where fossil hunters took advantage of the mild weather to wander desultorily along the sand, turning over rocks with their toes. On the table between them was what was left of a hearty Dorset cream tea: Dorset dumplings filled with a rum-and-apple mixture and flavored with ginger, a pile of butter-drenched scones, jam, tea, and of course a bowl of heaped, clotted cream, as sweet and thick as ice cream. They had not breakfasted that morning, and they had done extremely well by the rich meal.

'Do you really want some more jam?” Gideon asked.

'You don't have to sound so incredulous.” She pushed away her plate and smiled contentedly. “No, I've had more than enough. I feel as if I'm made of clotted cream.'

Gideon refilled the teapot with hot water and settled comfortably back. “Clotted cream looks terrific on you.'

'I'm just lucky you like your women Rubenesque.'

'Rubenesque? You've got a long way to go to Rubenesque. On the other hand, it's a good thing I don't like Modigliani.'

Julie raised a single eyebrow at him but didn't reply. As she poured the tea she said, “So you're still down to four possible informants, right? Frawley or one of the three students.'

'Five. Nate, too.'

'Nate? Do you really think it could be Nate?'

'No, but you said ‘possible.’ He'd certainly be in a position to forward most of the information Chantry got.” He put down his cup. “And what about Robyn? Or Arbuckle?'

'Robyn,” Julie said, “or Arbuckle. Now there's an interesting thought.'

'Well, I'm just covering all the bases. I'm not really serious.” Or was he? He considered. “You know, when you come down to it, Frederick Robyn is no friend of Nate's, what with the way Nate's been lambasting the Society. I suppose it's possible—barely possible—that he'd want to get even.'

'And Arbuckle?'

'No, I don't think Paul has anything against Nate. He didn't even want to be here. The poor guy just wants to get back to Pleistocene man in France. But Robyn, now—'

'You don't actually think he had anything to do with the murder, do you?'

'Well...” He shook his head sharply. “No, we're being ridiculous. Unfair, too. Just because Nate, in his inimitable fashion, has been a little ungracious to him is hardly a reason to suspect him of fraud and murder.'

'Still, it's a possible motive.'

'For the hoax, maybe, not for the murder. And anyway, there weren't any visitors to the site the day Randy was killed, remember? That lets off both Robyn and Arbuckle. So we're back to the original Suspects Four: Jack Frawley, Barry Fusco, Leon Something, and Sandra Something.'

'And Nathan Something. As an outside possibility.'

'Okay, right. Come on, let's go see the town and walk off some clotted cream.'

Lyme Regis had everything the guidebooks said it did: steep, narrow, winding streets; charming old pubs and inns bedecked with their original open-beam woodwork; quaint, clean shops; ancient cottages painted in soft pastels; a pretty harbor. Postcards, posters, and booklets celebrated the filming of The French Lieutenant's Woman there, as if the village dated its true genesis from Meryl Streep's arrival, but there were also signs—harder to find—of Jane Austen's visits, of Louisa Musgrove's dramatic fall in Persuasison, of the Duke of Monmouth's ill-fated landing in 1685.

Yet, with it all, the village was vaguely unsatisfying; perhaps it was the insistent Olde Englande atmosphere, cloying after Charmouth's simple, homespun ambience. They walked down Marine Parade to take the obligatory tourist's hike along the tilting top of the Cobb, the serpentine breakwater of gray stone blocks, but even this seemed tame. There were no waves or wind, and the tide was out, so that the boats moored within the crook of the Cobb lay sprawled clumsily on their sides in the gray mud.

But standing at the very end of the Cobb, facing east, they looked across smooth, open water at the fresh, green, billowing coast of Dorset. The rounded dome of Stonebarrow Fell was easily identifiable and looked, from here, peaceful and lovely. They gazed out, Gideon's arm about Julie's shoulder, her arm around his waist under his jacket, her hand resting in his far hip pocket.

She straightened suddenly. “I just had a thought. What Barry told you was that there weren't any visitors, right?'

'Right,” Gideon said dreamily, continuing to stare over the water.

'Well, would Frederick Robyn be a visitor? Or Paul? They must have their own keys. Barry wouldn't have had to let them in. When Barry said there weren't any visitors—'

'He wouldn't necessarily have meant them,” Gideon said, snapping alert. “Damn, that's right. Robyn lent me his key yesterday. He might have been there! Now that's something I want to look into.'

'No, it isn't,” Julie said firmly.

'It isn't?'

'No. It's something for you to tell Inspector Bagshawe, and for him to look into.'

He smiled. “I keep forgetting; I'm not a detective.” He glanced at is watch. “What I am is an anthropologist, and inasmuch as it's only two o'clock, maybe I ought to go up to the dig this afternoon, after all, and see if I can help Abe out.'

'Absolutely not. You told him tomorrow. Anyway, by the time you got back to Charmouth, changed into working