Grumpily, Gideon climbed the stairs and opened the door to his room. On the bed was a note from Julie.
Dear Husband (What fun!):
Do mufflers fall off cars? Something fell off ours and it looks suspiciously like one. Mr. Hinshore recommended a garage in Taunton, so I’ve driven over there to see if they can stick it back on again.
Curses, we’re not alone after all. A couple of archaeologists have moved in and one of them (I forget his name*) says he knows you. They told me to tell you they’d be in the Tudor Room this afternoon and would like you to come by. One of them is a sexy, interesting Englishman who looks like Sherlock Holmes (Razzle Bathbone, I mean), but the other one (the one who knows you) is kind of a dud, I’m afraid.
I should be back by 5:30, I hope.
I love you! I love you! I love you!
With sincere regards,
(Mrs.) Julene T. Oliver *Barkle? Arkle? Carbuncle?
P.S. I was thinking about making love to you on the Tudor Room hearth tonight. Do you suppose your friends would mind?
P.P.S. See page 2 of newspaper for more on Stonebarrow Fell.
Holding the note in his hand, Gideon frowned apprehensively. She hadn’t driven alone in England before. Would she remember that you drove on the wrong side? She’d be coming back on slippery roads after dark; he didn’t like that. And where the hell was Taunton? He found himself gnawing his lower lip with concern, smiled, and put the letter down. She was a perfectly competent women of thirty, a former senior parkranger who had once coolly rescued him in the depths of Olympic National Park. She had gotten along just fine without him all her life, and to worry now because she was driving alone was nothing but a reprehensible, condescending, and atavistic sexual chauvinism, to be discouraged before it got started. Never mind that it felt so good.
A copy of the West Dorset Times was on a corner of the bed. Gideon turned to page two and found the brief article at the top of the page.
STONEBARROW FELL AGAIN
The controversy-plagued archaeological excavation at Stonebarrow Fell continues to be the focus of interest in another matter: the mysterious disappearance of Mr. Randall Alexander, a staff member. Mr. Alexander has not been seen or heard from since November 13. Fears of foul play are mounting, and Chief Constable Kevin Blackmore yesterday requested the assistance of New Scotland Yard in the matter. It is understood that Detective Inspector Herbert T.M. Bagshawe is already on the scene.
He sat down on the bed with a queer, uneasy sense of misgiving. Randy had never shown up that night and had failed to leave a message, so that he and Julie had left the next day-November 14, was it?-without hearing from him. Gideon had been a little concerned at the time, but he’d forgotten about it before the day was out. But now he suddenly felt… responsible? Guilty? As if by being more receptive to Randy he might have prevented… what? The thought, ill-formed and obscure, skittered away from him.
He got up and went to the dark window, staring out but seeing only his own reflection, with the comfortable room behind him. Absently tossing and catching the small, heavy fossil he’d found on the beach, he tried to sort out his thoughts.
"Do I think he’s been murdered, is that it? Is that what’s bothering me? That someone killed him-Frawley? Nate, even?-flung him from the cliffs to keep him from telling me whatever secret he was going to reveal at five o’clock?" He said it aloud to see what it sounded like, and it sounded silly. There were a lot of explanations to sift through before getting to that one. Not that it was his responsibility to do any sifting. Still…
He looked in the tiny telephone book and, standing at the window, dialed the number for the county police. Inspector Bagshawe of Scotland Yard, he was told, was handling that particular case, but the inspector was gone for the day. Would he mind speaking with Sergeant Fryer?
Gideon told Sergeant Fryer as much as he remembered of his conversation with Randy, feeling more ridiculous by the second. The sergeant was courteous but not overly animated, and appeared to lose all interest when Gideon explained that it had to do with an alleged Mycenaean settlement in 1700 b.c.
"Ah," he said in his northern accent, "you’re an anthropologist yourself, are you, sir?"
"Yes."
"Oh, aye," Sergeant Fryer said, as if that explained it.
When he asked Gideon how long he would be in Char-mouth and where he could be reached afterward, Gideon could tell that he did so more out of politeness than relevance.
If he had any duty in the matter, he had now performed it, yet he still felt unsettled and on edge. He picked up the telephone book again, turned to "Hotels and Guest Houses," and began dialing. He got Nate on the third try, at the Cormorant.
"Nate, I was just calling to see if there was any news."
"News? What kind of news?"
"About Randy Alexander."
"Randy?" Nate said in a sort of disgusted disbelief. "Who knows where the schmuck is? I’ve had it with him."
"You’re not worried? The paper seemed to think he might be dead."
"Oh, come on… the Times? They jump on everything they can to make the dig look screwed up. I told you, they’ve got some kind of vendetta against me."
"Well, what do you think happened to him?"
"I think he just got bored and took off again. Probably rented a motorcycle somewhere and went tooling around the country."
" Again, did you say?" He felt as if someone had lifted a weight from his shoulders.
"That’s what I said. He once did it for two months, never mind two weeks, in Missouri-had to make up a whole semester, not that he gave a damn. And then he did it for two or three days during our first week here. But this does it. He’s through. He can go find somebody else to bug. Hey, how’d you like a nice new graduate student?"
"No thanks. Nate, that same day he disappeared-"
"Took off," Nate said peevishly.
"He made an appointment with me for five o’clock that day. He said he wanted to tell me something he didn’t seem to feel comfortable talking to you about. Do you know what that was about?"
"No, what was it about?"
"That’s what I’m asking you."
"How should I know?"
"Okay, never mind. I guess I was worried about nothing."
"You sure were, buddy. Listen, Gid, this guy isn’t one of your typical graduate students. He’s a drifter, a bum. He’s just playing around in school. You know what he really wanted to be? A pitcher. The guy spent six years in the minors. He was a southpaw, supposed to have a great fast ball, until he wore his arm out. Then he was a drummer in a rock band. Then he claims he was a mercenary in Africa-"
"And now he wants to be an archaeologist?"
"Don’t ask me, man. You know what he does back home? He rides with one of these so-called outlaw gangs-all middle-aged nerds, like him. You should see his chopper-it’s about twenty feet long; you practically have to lay on your back to ride it."
"Is he making it at Gelden?"
"Well, he’s not really that dumb," Nate allowed grudgingly. "He can read and write, more or less, and he’s loaded; his old man’s Alexander Toilet Tissue-not that the old guy isn’t always yelling about cutting him off. Anyway, that’s enough to get into Gelden-in fact, never mind the read-and-write bit. I voted against admitting the guy in the first place, but I got overruled. But this time I’m kicking his ass out of the department. The dean can stick him in classical lit if he want to. Look, why are we talking about him? What’s the big deal?"
"Well, he just seemed so anxious to talk to me."
"I’m telling you the guy likes to put people on. He really made an idiot out of Jack Frawley once; he even tried to do it to me. Forget him, will you? Hey, you’re gonna be there Thursday, aren’t you? Ten o’clock?"