Old Bones

'Probably,” Gideon said as they began walking toward the manoir again. “He seems pretty sharp to me.'

'Yeah, but you never know. It's funny how little things can get by you. You think I ought to mention it to him?'

'Sure,” Gideon said. “He really likes it when you tell him how to do his job.'

* * * *

JOLY had been faintly irritated to begin with, having been interrupted while interviewing Sophie Butts in the study, and he listened to John with his head bent sharply down, his back poker-straight, impatiently jiggling his toe. But in the end he was appreciative.

'Thank you,” he said politely. “Of course I've already begun canvassing local suppliers of cyanide, but I must admit that I hadn't thought of all this.'

'You would have,” John said magnanimously. “You've just been up to your ears.'

'Very true. Oh, and you'll both be interested to know that Claude's death by cyanide poisoning has been confirmed. Potassium cyanide, in solution in the wine. The level in his blood was nearly five percent; it's a wonder he lived as long as he did.” He bowed lightly in Gideon's direction. “It might well have gone undetected, Dr. Oliver— er, Gideon. Cyanide poisoning is easy to miss unless one is looking for it. It's a good choice for murder, as a matter of fact.'

'Well, thanks, uh, Lucien; there was that bitter-almond smell. Pretty hard to miss.'

When Joly had gone back into the study, John turned slowly to Gideon. ” ‘Lucien'?' he said wonderingly. “ 'Gideon'? What's going on?'

'You just have to know how to handle him, John.'

'Maybe,” he said, nodding. “But you know, I think the guy's finally starting to appreciate us.'

On their way out they found Ray moping aimlessly around the courtyard, kicking at pebbles. It seemed as good a time as any to bring up something that Gideon had been wanting to ask him.

'Ray,” he said without preface, “what was Guillaume doing out in Mont St. Michel Bay when he died?'

'Guillaume?” Ray's sandy eyebrows rose. “Looking for shells. I thought you knew.'

'I heard, but how do you know that's what he was doing?'

'He told us—the night before, at dinner. He said we'd have our meeting the next day, but it'd have to wait until the afternoon. It was going to be the first good day for collecting since October, and he was going to be out in the bay all morning. Why do you ask?'

'Look,” Gideon said, “does it make sense to you that he'd let the tide catch him by surprise? Would a guy as clear-headed and systematic as that go out there without checking a tide table?'

Ray frowned. “I suppose it is a little surprising, but— well, you know, everybody says he's been getting absentminded; he's almost eighty. I mean he was.'

'Did he seem to be getting absentminded to you?'

'I don't know. Maybe a little, but he was as intimidating as ever; I can tell you that.” He peered worriedly up into Gideon's eyes, then John's, then Gideon's again. “Gideon, you're making this sound awfully... sinister. Why, you're saying that Guillaume's death wasn't an accident either, aren't you?'

'I don't know, Ray,” Gideon said kindly. “The police don't find anything suspicious in it, if that makes you feel better.'

Ray sighed. “This is all extremely traumatic.'

Gideon nodded sympathetically. Not as traumatic as it was going to get, an uneasy hunch told him.

* * * *

'DOC,” John said as Gideon drove slowly between the gateposts and swung the rented Cortina to the right, the headlights picking out the trunks of the roadside plane trees like twin rows of colorless concrete pillars, “you're doing it again.'

'Doing what?” Gideon wondered blamelessly.

'Sticking your nose into something that isn't your business.'

'Me? Surely not.'

'Look, if you think there's something funny about Guillaume's death, just tell Joly. Don't run your own private investigation.'

'I already told him. He doesn't agree.'

'But you know a little more now. Maybe—'

'John, no offense, but I'll take care of this myself. Don't worry, when and if I have something to tell Joly, I'll tell him. I'm not doing this to get in his way, you know.'

'I know. You're doing it to find an excuse to avoid going to any more lectures on sarcosaprophagous bugs. Jesus, I didn't know I could say it.” He laughed and stretched. “Hey, tomorrow's Sunday. No school. We got any plans?'

'Nothing firm. We were going to spend some time in St. Malo—the old part: walk the ramparts, see Chateaubriand's tomb, Jacques Cartier's tomb...'

'Tombs,” John grumbled. “Great. Sounds like your kind of holiday.'

'All right, what do you say if between tombs we drop in on Dr. Loti? He lives in St. Malo.'