Murder in the Queen's Armes Read Online Free PDF Page B

adaptations—"
    "Well, yes," Leon said, "that’s one way of looking at it—" He stopped, seeing that the older man had returned.
    "Golly, Dr. Oliver," the man said in mournful apology, "I must have been out to lunch when you said who you were. Nate’s talked about you lots of times." His liquid eyes shone with abashed sincerity. The man really does look like a basset, Gideon thought. Even his ears were baggy.
    He shook hands with Gideon, a sincere, confidential two-handed shake, the left hand gripping Gideon’s elbow. "I’m Jack Frawley, Nate’s assistant. I’m an associate prof at Gelden." He smiled weakly. "It’s a genuine pleasure to meet you."
    Although he’d never met him, Gideon knew who Frawley was. At one time he’d been a promising scholar, and he’d achieved his associate professorship by the time he was twenty-five. Two decades ago, however, he had published a paper in
American Antiquity
in which he’d made a string of elementary statistical errors. Published responses had been scathing and brutal, after the time-honored fashion of learned societies, and Frawley had never dared to publish again, as far as Gideon knew.
    In the world of academia, that had meant a dead stop to his career, and for more than twenty years he had remained an associate professor at Gelden. When old Blassie had retired two years ago as head of the department, Frawley, the senior member of the faculty, hadn’t even been considered as a replacement, and the younger Nate Marcus had been brought in from Case Western Reserve.
    "Well, well, come on back," Frawley said with oily hospitality that failed to convince. "I’m sure you want to see Nate."
    Gideon turned to Leon. "Sorry, I hope we can finish this another time."
    "Anytime, Gideon," Leon said. "Always glad to hear your views."
    Gideon?…Hear your views?
What the hell kind of way was that for a grad student to talk to a professor he’d just met? But then, why shouldn’t he be sure of himself? And why should he, Gideon, be ruffled by informality from someone not much more than ten years younger? Was he already looking jealously over his shoulder at the next generation of bright young anthropologists? Now
there
was a tendency to be watched.
    As they walked toward the corrugated-metal shed, Frawley clasped Gideon’s forearm and moved closer. There was stale pipe tobacco on his breath. "Now, Gideon," he said confidentially, "—may I call you Gideon?—I’d like to share some thoughts with you in all candor."
    Gideon’s vague unease defined itself more sharply. People eager to "share" things with him put him off— particularly after a one-minute acquaintance. So did people who squeezed his arm—men, anyway—conspiratorially or otherwise, and leveled shiny-eyed, straight-shooting gazes on him. And he’d never been much of a fan of the double handshake.
    "Damn!" Frawley unexpectedly exclaimed. Not looking where he was going, he had stumbled over the corner of a narrow trench not far from the shed.
    "What is it?" Gideon asked. "A test pit?" With a little luck, Frawley might forget about his candid thoughts.
    "A test pit, yes. Nate thought there might be a barrow here, or some buildings, with their surface features obliterated."
    Gideon could see no reason to think so, but then no one had believed there was anything at the site of the main dig either, except for Nate. "You didn’t find anything?"
    "Nothing. A foot and a half below the surface we hit glacial till. I mean the Riss glaciation—Middle Pleistocene. We certainly weren’t going to find anything interesting under that; it’d be two hundred thousand years old, at least."
    Gideon smiled to himself. Two hundred thousand years. That was about where things began to get interesting, as far as he was concerned.
    But not as far as Frawley was concerned. The older man urged him on—with a hand at his elbow—and then, as they approached the door to the shed, he squeezed Gideon’s forearm once more. Whatever it was he