Old Bones

'When a knife—or an axe—cuts through bone,” Gideon said, “it drives the compact bone before it so that there's some chipping at the exit. It's like sawing through a block of wood; you get a splintering at the back.'

Joly fingered the cut again. “All right, let's say that it was a knife or other sharp instrument—'

'A knife,” Gideon said, then added: “I think.” He was beginning to feel a little sorry for the inspector and a little over-pontifical.

Joly breathed in, then out. “And not an axe, for example? Didn't you say a moment ago it would affect the bone the same way?'

'Sure, but there's no way anything as gross as an axe could have chipped just the top of one rib; there'd be other damage.'

Joly conceded. “Yes, you're right,” he said, and blew out smoke. He ran his long-fingered hand lightly across the few fine, short hairs on the top of his head. In his own way he was enjoying himself, Gideon realized, even if he hadn't won a round so far. After a morning of evasive answers from reluctant interviewees, this string of direct and unconditional responses was probably refreshing.

'Your conclusions are quite helpful and interesting, Dr. Oliver,” he said, not yet willing to throw in the towel, “but I should tell you that I still have a few reservations about them.'

That makes two of us, Gideon thought, but he wasn't quite ready to admit it yet.

Joly continued: “For example: I haven't heard you suggest that there is anything that tells us exactly when the wound was caused.'

'No, there's no way to know, but why should that make any difference?'

'Because,” Joly said mildly, “if it was made by the pick of one of the workmen who came upon it yesterday, there would be some question about its being the cause of death. No?'

'Oh, I see what you mean. Well, actually, we can say for sure—'

With a sigh the policeman interrupted him. “No, let me guess. No doubt, bones that have lain in the ground for some time become discolored, as these have done. And a cut that was made yesterday would show as fresh white against the brown. Am I correct?'

'You are,” Gideon smiled, not unhappy to have Joly finally score a point, “and there's something else too.” He set the rib on the table directly in the path of the slanting light and found the little burr with his finger. Then he handed Joly the lens. “Look there.'

Joly looked, his eyes narrowed against the cigarette smoke. “It appears to be an imperfection of some sort ...a little curlicue...'

'A curlicue of bone; that's just what it is. Live bone responds to a knife a lot like wood, as I said, so if you carve a thin slice off it, the slice will curl away, like a shaving.'

'And dead bone is different?'

'Right. You couldn't carve a curling slice off that rib now any more than you could off a piece of porcelain. What you're looking at is a place where the blade scraped against the bone when it was living.'

Joly straightened upand put down the lens. “But this is in a different place. What does it have to do with the other cut?'

'Oh, I think we can pretty safely assume it was also made at the time of death—there's been no healing of either cut—and that it happened when the knife was pulled back out. The direction and angle of the slice suggest that the knife was probably twisted a little, and—'

” ‘Probably'?' Joly pounced with dry elation on the word and leveled the two fingers in which he held his cigarette at Gideon. “ 'Suggest'? ‘Safely assume'? Can you mean you actually admit to some uncertainty? Fallibility, even?'

Gideon laughed. “No, I just didn't want to seem cocksure.'

Joly looked at him, then emitted what was for him a full-throated laugh: a series of four staccato barks. He dropped his cigarette on the stone paving and ground it out with his heel. “There's a restaurant you might enjoy in Dinan. What do you say to lunch?'

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ELEVEN

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AFTER the hours in the dingy cellar, Dinan was a welcome change, an old, pretty town surrounded by ancient stone walls almost hidden by gnarled ivy and bright green lichens, and dominated at one end by the handsome, brooding keep of its medieval castle. The town center was straight out of the fifteenth century, all cool, clean, gray-brown stone. The streets were cobbled with it, the ramparts and the crooked, cramped old houses made from big blocks of it. No wood, no stucco, no brick; only stone. But there were enough perky little trees in planters, enough minuscule gardens, enough tiny shops and restaurants to make it all cozy and appealing in a smaller-than- lifesize way, a Disney World rendering of MiddleAgesLand.

Joly parked the car outside the walls, along the Promenade des Petits-Fosses, and they walked through the old portal, then down twisting alleys, to the Grill-Room Duguesclin just off the Place du Champ-Clos.

'You'll like it, I think,” Joly said. “Traditional Breton cooking, though it's run by a family of Iranians, strangely enough.'

The sign outside said 'Grillades sur Feu de Bois,' and the grill turned out to be a huge, open fireplace of stone that was the centerpiece of the plain dining room, with a lively fire throwing out a campfire aroma that had Gideon salivating before the door closed behind him. On a wide, blackened grate set over the fire, portions of meat and fish sizzled under the teeth-flashing, showy supervision of two lean, brown young