Murder in the Queen's Armes

'No big deal,” Abe said. “So, let's have some lunch, and we'll have our little talk.'

He tore open a brown paper bag, removed its waxed paper-wrapped contents, and spread it out as a make-do tablecloth. He and Leon had their meals with them, but Gideon was empty-handed; he had promised to meet Julie at the George for a late lunch. Still somewhat disconcerted, he peeked once again at Leon in the mirror— right- handed, definitely right-handed—and brought back the coffee mugs.

'Jesus Christ,” Leon said. “Fish paste.” He was peering into one of the two sandwiches packed for him by his landlady. He groaned and shook his head in waggish despair. “The English.'

Abe smiled tolerantly. As well he could, Gideon thought. Mrs. Hinshore had provided a thick, aromatic roast- beef-and-horseradish sandwich for him.

'Wow,” Leon said, watching him unwrap it. “I think I'm staying at the wrong place.” He was relaxed and smiling, his elbow over the back of his chair.

'Leon,” Gideon said, “do you remember coming up with a fragment of a human femur a few weeks ago?'

'Uh-uh.'

'November one, it would have been. It was never entered in the field catalog.'

'Maybe,” Leon said absently, chewing slowly, “but I don't think so.'

'You don't think so?” Abe looked up sharply from his sandwich. “A human bone isn't important enough to remember?'

'Well, sure it's important, Abe,” Leon replied with some edge, “and I guess I'd remember it if I dug it up. So I guess I didn't.'

Abe put the sandwich down on the paper sack and reached inside his cardigan sweater. His hand emerged with the find card, which he extended to Leon.

Leon wiped his fingers, took the card, and frowned. “Huh,” he said, “ ‘human femur, left, partial.’ That's my handwriting, all right....Boy, it's hard to remember. You're talking about a month ago; we've dug up a lot of stuff since.” He shook his head at the card and handed it back. “I don't know what to say, Abe.'

He took another dreamy bite of his sandwich. “Wait a minute; maybe I do remember.” He swallowed, his eyes rolled upward. Gideon was struck with the distinct impression that some quick fabrication was underway. “Yeah, that's right—I found something I thought might be a human bone, and I wrote it on the find card. I remember, I got all excited about it.” He laughed merrily at himself. “And then when Jack looked at it, he said it was just a piece of a steatite carving.” Again he chuckled at himself.

'That's hard to buy, Leon,” Gideon said. “A couple of weeks ago you recognized the difference—a damn subtle one—between the ribs of a deer and those of a human being. Now you're saying you couldn't tell the difference between a stone carving and a femur?'

Leon hunched his shoulders and spread his hands humorously. “What can I say? I'm human too.'

Abe looked at him, running a finger over his chin. “In the field catalog on November first, there is only one entry: four faience beads. No steatite carving.'

Thoughtfully, Leon reached into his paper sack, ignoring a second sandwich and bringing out a roll of mints. He offered it around. “Polos. They're like Lifesavers.” Gideon and Abe declined, and Leon popped one into his mouth and dropped the roll into a shirt pocket. “Well,” he said at last,

'I sure don't know how to account for it. Maybe I got the date wrong on the card.'

'That's possible,” Abe said pleasantly, “but in the whole catalog there's no steatite carving.'

Again Leon spread his hands.

'There was something else, Leon,” Gideon said. “Originally, you put down the depth as twenty-one inches, then crossed it out and changed it to twelve. What was that about?'

'I did?” Leon asked for the card back from Abe and made a show of studying it intently. “Oh,” he said with a smile, “I see what you mean. No big mystery. I just transposed the numbers by mistake. Do it all the time. I'd make a hell of a meter-reader, huh?” Still smiling, he handed the card back to Abe. “Boy, you guys are picky! And I thought Nate gave me a hard time.'

'Was Nate giving you a hard time?” Gideon asked.

'Well, no, not exactly a hard time.” Was it Gideon's imagination or did Leon seem a little uneasy? “But we've been spending a couple of evenings a week over beers, having some good old-fashioned arguments about my dissertation.'

'He's chairing your committee, isn't he?'

'Yeah, and he keeps wanting me to do the thing like a technician—which is just what he is, when you come down to it—but I just can't do it. You know, that's exactly what's wrong with archaeology: The emphasis is all on data, on digging up things and recording them.” He leaned forward intently. “If we spent half as much time thinking about what it all means as we do photographing and drawing and recording every crummy, dog-biscuit potsherd we dig up, maybe we'd know something.'

'I think you have a point,” Gideon said, as willing as ever to take up an academic argument, but not unaware that Leon had rather skillfully changed the subject, “but you have to remember that archaeology is a funny science.

Even at its best, it obliterates evidence as it discovers it. If you have poor scholarship in the field, you destroy future knowledge. Look at the nineteenth-century archaeologists. Look at Schliemann; if he had known how to properly record and catalog what he found at Troy—'

'There, that's just what I mean. We think in terms of catalogs, lists of things. We shouldn't be writing catalog entries; we should be writing chapters on the social history of mankind. We're supposed to be humanists, aren't we?— not compilers of minutiae that nobody gives a damn about, and that don't matter a damn when it comes down to it.'

Gideon was experiencing something close to deja vu. This was another installment of the discussions