Old Bones

doctor.

'Not really,” John said. “I got the bonjour pretty good, and I got the au revoir, but I didn't get too much in between.'

'He said Guillaume had rickets.'

'Yeah, that's right; you told me.” His eyes widened. “This skeleton's got rickets?'

'It sure as hell does. The leg bones show torsion, bowing, shortening—not extreme, but enough. That's why the class came up with such a low height estimate, and it's what messed them up on race. It all adds up to rickets.'

And, he was too embarrassed to mention, so did the beading on the ribs that he'd noticed days ago and

promptly forgotten. Not prayer beads at all. The “rickety rosary” was what old pathology texts called it, and it should have been a giveaway. But with rickets being so uncommon for the last fifty years, and with this particular case being relatively mild, and with his reference books back in Port Angeles...Given time he could probably come up with a dozen excuses, but the simple fact was that he'd missed it.

'Doc,” John said. “Am I wrong, or don't you get rickets from malnutrition? Why would a rich guy like Guillaume have it?'

'It comes from a lack of vitamin D in kids. It throws off bone metabolism. But people didn't even know what vitamins were when he was born, and plenty of rich kids got it.'

Joly had lit his cigarette and come to the table to stare accusingly down at the bones. “Why would a case of rickets prove so conclusively that this is Guillaume? As you said, other people have had it.'

'But not any other du Rochers, according to Loti. And this is a du Rocher, all right; the sternal foramen, the skeletal proportions—Who else could it possibly be?'

'I believe the same question was asked of me yesterday,” Joly observed drily. “At that time the correct answer was Alain du Rocher.'

'Well, I was wrong,” Gideon admitted again. “I was going with the information I had at the time.'

Joly merely looked at him.

'You get new data, you have to modify your hypotheses,” John contributed sagely from his chair.

'That's about the size of it,” Gideon smiled. “Look, maybe it can be verified. The teeth have had some work done on them. Maybe there are some dental records around.'

'After all this time?” Joly said. “I doubt it.” He frowned, stroking his cheek, still looking penetratingly down at the bones, as if waiting for them to explain themselves. “All right, let's say you're right—'

'You're wearing him down, Doc,” John said.

'Very probably,” Joly conceded. He turned to face Gideon through a veil of blue smoke. “If so, it raises a good many new questions. Who killed him? Why? How was it possible to keep it secret all this time? Is there a connection to Claude's murder?'

'I've got a good one too,” John said. “If that stuff on the table is what's left of Guillaume du Rocher . . .'

'Yes?” Joly said, turning.

'. . . then just who the hell was it who drowned in the bay last week?'

* * * *

UNDER self-imposed and mutually agreeable rules John and Gideon gave themselves a break from the proliferating mysteries of Rochebonne and didn't discuss them during most of the drive to Mont St. Michel. But when they stopped for gas at an Elf Station near St. Georges de Grehaigne, John could no longer restrain himself.

'Doc, I've been thinking about it,” he said, turning intently towards Gideon, his palms on his thighs and his elbows akimbo. “I don't think it makes any sense. How could anybody get away with it? It's impossible.'

'What's impossible about it?'

'Well, what are you saying? That after Guillaume died somebody imitated him for the next fifty years or so and fooled everyone who knew him? It can't be done.'

'Why not? Remember, everybody thought he went off to join the Resistance in 1942. When he showed up again—that is, when the fake Guillaume showed up—'

'Come on, admit it. Listen to what you're saying. Does this sound like real life?'

'—nobody had seen the real one for two solid years.'

'Doc, Doc, you've been watching too much TV. I'm telling you it can't be done; not really. You can't fool a guy's family, his friends...There are too many little things you can't imitate exactly—his expressions, the way he smiles, the way he walks, and moves, and even stands; the little bits of trivia he knows—'

'Even,” Gideon said, “if the new Guillaume's face was so scarred you'd never be able to recognize it? Even with a damaged larynx that changed his voice to a whisper? Even if most of his bones had been pinned back together with 1944 techniques so he walked, and moved, and stood differently? Even if he turned reclusive and hardly talked to anyone any more? Even if he'd already lived at Rochebonne so he knew the routine?'

'Yeah, well, that's a point—but are you telling me his own doctor wouldn't know him?'

'Loti never saw him until they brought him into the hospital in 1944.'

'What about the rickets?'

'What about the rickets?'

'Well, Loti knew Guillaume had rickets as a kid. Couldn't he see the new Guillaume didn't have it?'