"Dr. Merrill, Alexander came in with a brand-new mallet the day I was there. I think he’d just been sent to buy it."
"Indeed he had, and it turns out to be the very one. But let me tell the story. Our lads did some quick detective work and identified the tag: It was a ‘Texas’ sticker-the ‘as’ was the last part of the name. Texas Homecare, as you may know, is a chain of DIY stores-"
"DIY?"
"Do It Yourself. Don’t you use the term on the other side of the Pond?"
"Oh, yes. Right."
"Well, they have a branch in Bridport, where they do in fact sell mallets, and did in fact sell one the very day Alexander was last seen. This information was passed on to Inspector Bagshawe-"
"Who immediately went to Stonebarrow Fell to see if he could find a fairly new ‘Texas’ mallet with part of the price tag torn off."
"He did indeed, and readily found what he was looking for. Useless for fingerprints, of course, inasmuch as it’s been in use for two weeks. But-and this was confirmed only this morning-the torn edge of the tag on the mallet matched exactly the torn margin of the tag on poor Alexander’s sleeve. A triumph of detection, what? And all done in less than twenty-four hours."
It was true then. Randy Alexander had been killed by a fellow member of the dig. Until that moment it hadn’t truly sunk in; it had simply been a piece of a jigsaw puzzle that fitted neatly into place. Now it was real. One of them was a murderer: Frawley…Sandra…Barry… Leon. Maybe even Nate. Why not Nate, really? Did any of them seem like a killer? He couldn’t honestly say he liked all of them, but murderers…?
"Professor," Merrill was saying, "Detective Inspector Bagshawe is here now. Would you like to speak with him?"
Gideon told Bagshawe briefly about the lagoon and about what Barry had told him. "And since there weren’t any visitors-"
"The murderer would have to be a member of the Stonebarrow party, wouldn’t he? So it would seem."
There was a long pause during which Bagshawe’s heavy, unhurried breathing sounded in Gideon’s ear.
"How is the investigation coming along, Inspector?"
"Tolerably well, Professor, tolerably well."
Obviously, information was not going to be readily volunteered from the other end of the line. Gideon made another try.
"I understand you haven’t told them about Randy yet?"
"No, that’s true. Thought it would be best to pursue a few other inquiries before I gave them the news, but I’m on my way there now." He paused, seeming to turn something over in his mind. "You know, this makes things a bit problematical."
"What does?"
"The mallet… the piece of business about the lagoon… all of it pointing to an inside job."
"Why problematical?"
"Because, Professor, among the several interesting facts I gathered on Stonebarrow Fell was this: They’re right-handed to a man-to a woman, when you include Miss Mazur. Not a left-hander among them."
"You’re sure? Whoever it is may have been trying to hide it." He realized with a small shock of surprise that at least a little part of him had been hoping that Frawley was going to turn out to be a southpaw.
"Yes, Professor," Bagshawe said patiently. "I’m quite sure. If he was killed by a dig worker, he was killed by a right-hander. It looks like this is one of those one-out-often cases the good doctor was talking about."
Gideon didn’t quite believe it. His experience had apparently been different from Merrill’s. From what he’d seen, a nightstick fracture could always be used to predict the handedness of an attacker. People didn’t go around wielding bone-smashing clubs-a mallet in this case- backhanded or in their weaker hand. "Either that, or we’re wrong about assuming the killer’s one of the crew."
"And do you think we are?"
"No," Gideon said after a moment. "I think we’re right."
"Well," Bagshawe said, "that’s that, then, isn’t it? I assure you, they’re all dyed-in-the-wool right-handers. My guess is that there was a scuffle sometime that afternoon- Alexander was last seen at three o’clock-right there in the fog, near the edge of the cliff, and the killer grabbed the mallet any way he could-perhaps it had already been knocked out of his right hand-and wound up picking it up with his left hand. You see," he said generously, "I don’t doubt your conclusions about a left-handed blow-only about a left-handed attacker."
"I guess you’re right," Gideon allowed, but it still didn’t sit right. "Anyway, where does the identification of the hammer lead us?"
The "us" was an accidental admission; Gideon was more involved than he thought.
Bagshawe, possibly realizing this, effectively ended the conversation. "A very good question, sir," he said pleasantly, "and I’m most grateful to you for all the help you’ve given us. I’m sure you understand, by the way, that all our little hypotheses and findings are between us; to be kept in the family, so to speak."
"Of course,"
"Well, that’s all right then. A very good day to you, Professor."
Gideon replaced the receiver and leaned back in the armchair, hands behind his head, staring absently out the window. Their room, one flight up, overlooked the ancient, rock-walled back garden of the Queen’s Armes. In the distance, about half a mile away, was the profile of the hillside that swept smoothly up to Stonebarrow Fell, lush and pearly green against a threatening, shifting sky of blacks and grays.
He and Julie had breakfasted early with Abe, Robyn, and Arbuckle. Afterward, Robyn and Arbuckle had retired to the sitting room and Abe had whispered to Gideon that he was going to the Cormorant to try to talk some sense into Nate.
Now Gideon heard a soft tap at the door behind him, and then the sounds of Abe and Julie talking. He got up and went to them.
"How’d you do with Nate?"
"No luck. Everything he said, he stands by." Abe shook his head disgustedly. "Every foolish thing. Already he’s planning a press conference after the inquiry-so the whole world can learn his wonderful secret from his own lips." More slowly this time, he shook his head again. "It’s not the way a scholar should act. It’s not what I taught him, Gideon."
"What did he say about Randy?" Julie asked.
"What about his mysterious find?" asked Gideon. "Would he tell you what it is?"
"Not a word. Only that it’s going to ‘blow my mind.’ Feh, where did he learn to talk like this?"
"Abe," Gideon said, "do you suppose it’s possible that he’s really got something-"
"To prove what?" Abe flared up peevishly. "That Agamemnon invaded Charmouth? In what, a floating wooden horse? Don’t be ridiculous. What did they teach you in archaeology?"
"All right, all right," Gideon said hastily. "I’m not an archaeologist, remember?"
"That you don’t got to tell me," Abe snapped. Then he patted the back of Gideon’s hand. "So why am I mad at you? Nathan’s the one who’s making a fool of himself." He looked at his watch. "Come on, it’s after nine. Let’s get the others and go. It’s a big hill, and my arthritis is bothering me. Nathan will meet us there. Good-bye, Julie," he said, and turned dejectedly to leave. "I wish I wasn’t here. Who asked me to come?"
Gideon raised his eyes bleakly to Julie as he began to follow Abe out the door.
She stood on tiptoe to place a quick kiss on his cheek. "Be careful. Both of you seem to keep forgetting there’s a murderer up there."
TWELVE
A murderer? Try five. He’d been telling himself none of them looked like killers, but now the whole crew looked guilty as hell.
Gideon and Abe, flanked by Robyn and Arbuckle, had found Nate Marcus in the shed, seated at the cleaned-off worktable with his staff. All the dig members looked up, blinking into the daylight when the door was opened, and Gideon was afforded a frozen, snapshot glance. They might have been a cast assembled by a film director and told to look as edgy and disreputable as they possibly could.