Skeleton Dance

come back to Les Eyzies after all the—'

Audrey cut in. “I don't know about you, but I'm all in favor of changing the subject. Do we really want to burden Gideon with old gossip, Jacques?'

'Quite right,” Beaupierre agreed, busying himself with his coffee. “No we don't, quite right.'

'I understand,” Gideon said, increasingly certain that he didn't. Corsica or no Corsica, he couldn't get away from the feeling—the conviction—that those bones were Bousquet's and that most of the other people in the room thought so too. “It's only that Inspector Joly mentioned that he'd had some kind of unpleasantness here, with one of his co-workers. I was wondering what that was about.” This was hardly the smooth and subtle approach he was supposed to be taking, but he had hold of something and he didn't want to let go until he had at least some idea of what it was.

'Oh, well,” said Beaupierre, “that's a long story—'

'A long story and a pointless one,” Montfort muttered bluntly. Beaupierre might be the director, but it was clear where the fount of moral authority lay.

'Perhaps so,” Beaupierre responded. “I only thought—that is—well, won't the police be prowling about soon in any case, asking their questions? But then again, of course, mm, it might be best, after all . . .” He subsided, fumbling with the heavy black temples of his glasses.

'If the police want to ask us about our views on Jean Bousquet's relationships with others, I'm sure we'll all answer as honestly as we can,” Audrey said, “but for the time being, I think we'd all agree—I hope we'd all agree —that it would be premature—premature and unfair—for us to engage in speculation?'

The others did agree, but it seemed to Gideon there was something furtive, even shamefaced, in their nods.

'Besides,” Pru said, “if nothing else, it'd put Gideon in an uncomfortable position.'

But Gideon was already in an uncomfortable position. When he'd raised the subject of Jean Bousquet with them, he'd done it under the impression that Joly's “unpleasantness with a fellow-worker” had referred to a problem Bousquet had had with another laborer. But now a less palatable idea had slowly taken root: Bousquet's dispute had been with one of them. Why else were they banding together to prevent any discussion of it in front of him?

It was an extremely strong impression; something he felt bound to pass on to Joly, and it went against his instincts. Asking questions openly, getting open answers, and passing them along was one thing. Catching them off-guard and surreptitiously gauging their reactions was another, and it felt too damn close to informing on his friends. Not, of course, that he thought for a moment that one of these people—one of his fellow-anthropologists, after all—was guilty of murdering the unfortunate Bousquet (if it was Bousquet). Still, it made him feel like a rat.

To his surprise he found that he'd emptied his water glass, and he refilled it while he framed his words. “I'd like to set something straight. The basic reason I'm here is to work on my book, to fill in the gaps in my understanding of the Tayac affair. I hope everybody understands that. On the other hand, I am also helping Inspector Joly with those remains.'

When he glanced up from the glass, he found them looking at him somewhat uncomprehendingly.

'What I'm trying to tell you is that I just want you to know that—well, that I am working with him . . .'

'Which means,” Emile said, the egrets jiggling, “that anything we say may be used against us?'

'Not used against you, no—'

'But passed on to the stalwart inspector.'

'Well . . . yes,” Gideon said miserably. “If it's relevant. I think I have to.'

'That's completely as it should be, Gideon,” said Beaupierre. “It's only that, mm . . .'

Audrey picked up the ball. “It's only that we'd all be better served if we stayed away from gossip and stuck to facts. Is there anything we can do to assist that doesn't involve speculation, Gideon? I know we'd all like to help.'

Gideon wished he were more sure of that himself, but in any case it was the chance he was looking for, and before anyone could disagree he said: “Yes, there is. You could tell me what Bousquet looked like.'

They did, but nothing they said was useful. Brown eyes, brown hair, balding at the crown. An average guy, nothing special, not particularly tall, or short, or fat, or thin.

It fit the body in the cave, all right, but so did every other average white guy in France. “Does anybody remember his having any sort of serious infection?” he asked after a moment, thinking of the inflammation he'd found on the left ulna. “Skin ulcers that wouldn't heal, maybe?'

'Skin ulcers where?” asked Beaupierre.

'No, it works better if you tell me.'

'No, no skin ulcers,” Beaupierre said.

Then why did you ask where? thought Gideon. But of course with Beaupierre, you couldn't necessarily assume he had anything logical in mind when he spoke. Or anything at all.

Thoughtfully, Audrey lifted a hand. “Do you mean an infection that he had while he was here, or are you also interested in earlier ones?'

'Either,” Gideon said. He wasn't sure how old the bone inflammation was.

'Well, he had t.b. when he was a boy, I know that. He told me about it once. He got it in West Africa—his father was a well-driller when Jean was in his teens, and the family lived in Mali for a while. Afterward, he had to spend some time at a government sanatorium in Menton.'

'Do you mean skeletal t.b.?” Gideon asked with interest. He hadn't spotted any signs of it in his earlier examination—whatever the inflammation on the ulna was, it wasn't tubercular—but then he hadn't been looking for