Murder in the Queen's Armes

'Well, it's just . . .'

Gideon glanced down in the pit at Leon, who, with a rake in his hands, was watching him anxiously, his face still pale.

'It's just that I made a promise.'

'To who did you make a promise?” Up went a peremptory hand. “Hup! Never mind. A secret is a secret. Excuse me I should ask.'

'Come on, Abe,” Gideon said miserably, “it's a promise. Give me a break.'

Both of Abe's hands went up now, palms toward Gideon, and the frail shoulders shrugged. “Not another word. Why should your old teacher—who taught you everything, and who helps you on your cases all the time, and who's supposed to be running this dig—know what's going on?'

'Good,” Gideon said more firmly. “I'm glad you feel that way. We're liable to have a problem with Nate, by the way. He ought to be there, and he was pretty well soused when I left him an hour ago.'

'Nate?

'Yes, indeed. He's sleeping it off, I think.'

Abe made a decisive little nod. “When we're finished here, I'll go down and fix him up. I'll make him take a guggle-muggle.'

'Come again?'

'An old remedy. You mix whiskey, hot tea, molasses, and raw eggs, and swallow it in one gulp.'

Gideon made a face. “It sounds terrible.'

'That's why you got to drink it in one gulp. You call it a guggle-muggle because that's what it sounds like when it goes down: Guggle, muggle. Believe me, by seven o'clock he'll be fine.'

He walked a few steps to the pit and called for attention, his voice thin in the crisp air.

'Hold it a minute, please! We need to have a meeting tonight at seven o'clock. I hope it doesn't interfere with anybody's plans.'

Only Sandra appeared annoyed. “How long will it be?'

Abe looked at Gideon, who said, “An hour; maybe more.'

'No problems?” Abe asked the group, and waited. Sandra sighed gustily. The others were quiet. “Let's meet at the Queen's Armes, in that room next to the lounge, with all the sofas.'

'The sitting room,” Gideon said.

'Right, the sitting room. I'll see there's something to nosh on; a little coffee and some Danish.'

Gideon started for the shed to do some pottery sorting, but had gone only a few steps when he remembered his promise to Julie. He turned around.

'I just remembered. I can't make it at seven. How about eight?'

No one objected. Leon gave him a small, pallid nod. Only Abe spoke. “And why not at seven?'

'Because...well, it's just hard for me.'

'A secret?” Abe asked drily.

'No, not a secret,” Gideon growled. “I just promised my wife I'd walk out with her to Dyne Meadow and, uh, watch the moon come up. At seven-oh-four.'

Everyone seemed to look at him for a long time before Abe clapped his hands together. “Okay, folks,” he said, “let's get the backfilling all finished up. Leon, you look a little green around the gills. You're all right?'

'I... I'm not sure.'

Abe nodded knowingly. “The fish paste. You want to lie down? Maybe you should go home early?'

'No—yes, I think maybe that'd be a good idea.'

'Go ahead; get some rest. You'll be at the meeting tonight?'

'Definitely.” Leon's grayish lips stretched in a sickly smile. “I wouldn't miss it.'

* * * *

BY four o'clock the rest of the crew had also left, and Abe and Gideon locked up the gate and walked down the hill together, “Abe,” Gideon said as they approached the bottom, “I've been thinking about that femur.'

'I've been thinking too.'

'In spite of everything else, Nate seems to have run a pretty professional dig. That means that whatever it was Leon found, it would have been photographed right away. There must be photographs of it. I think we ought to look through the whole photographic file—'

'This I already did,” Abe said. “Nothing.'

'Huh,” Gideon said.

They walked across the wooden footbridge over the Char, their feet making homely, muffled thumping sounds. Abe stopped suddenly.

'Wait a minute. Tell me something. The boy that got killed—Randy—he was the technician, right? He took the photographs?'