"Five. Nate, too."
"Nate? Do you really think it could be Nate?"
"No, but you said ‘possible.’ He’d certainly be in a position to forward most of the information Chantry got." He put down his cup. "And what about Robyn? Or Arbuckle?"
"Robyn," Julie said, "or Arbuckle. Now there’s an interesting thought."
"Well, I’m just covering all the bases. I’m not really serious." Or was he? He considered. "You know, when you come down to it, Frederick Robyn is no friend of Nate’s, what with the way Nate’s been lambasting the Society. I suppose it’s possible-barely possible-that he’d want to get even."
"And Arbuckle?"
"No, I don’t think Paul has anything against Nate. He didn’t even want to be here. The poor guy just wants to get back to Pleistocene man in France. But Robyn, now-"
"You don’t actually think he had anything to do with the murder, do you?"
"Well…" He shook his head sharply. "No, we’re being ridiculous. Unfair, too. Just because Nate, in his inimitable fashion, has been a little ungracious to him is hardly a reason to suspect him of fraud and murder."
"Still, it’s a possible motive."
"For the hoax, maybe, not for the murder. And anyway, there weren’t any visitors to the site the day Randy was killed, remember? That lets off both Robyn and Arbuckle. So we’re back to the original Suspects Four: Jack Frawley, Barry Fusco, Leon Something, and Sandra Something."
"And Nathan Something. As an outside possibility."
"Okay, right. Come on, let’s go see the town and walk off some clotted cream."
Lyme Regis had everything the guidebooks said it did: steep, narrow, winding streets; charming old pubs and inns bedecked with their original open-beam woodwork; quaint, clean shops; ancient cottages painted in soft pastels; a pretty harbor. Postcards, posters, and booklets celebrated the filming of The French Lieutenant’s Woman there, as if the village dated its true genesis from Meryl Streep’s arrival, but there were also signs-harder to find-of Jane Austen’s visits, of Louisa Musgrove’s dramatic fall in Persuasison, of the Duke of Monmouth’s ill-fated landing in 1685.
Yet, with it all, the village was vaguely unsatisfying; perhaps it was the insistent Olde Englande atmosphere, cloying after Charmouth’s simple, homespun ambience. They walked down Marine Parade to take the obligatory tourist’s hike along the tilting top of the Cobb, the serpentine breakwater of gray stone blocks, but even this seemed tame. There were no waves or wind, and the tide was out, so that the boats moored within the crook of the Cobb lay sprawled clumsily on their sides in the gray mud.
But standing at the very end of the Cobb, facing east, they looked across smooth, open water at the fresh, green, billowing coast of Dorset. The rounded dome of Stonebarrow Fell was easily identifiable and looked, from here, peaceful and lovely. They gazed out, Gideon’s arm about Julie’s shoulder, her arm around his waist under his jacket, her hand resting in his far hip pocket.
She straightened suddenly. "I just had a thought. What Barry told you was that there weren’t any visitors, right?"
"Right," Gideon said dreamily, continuing to stare over the water.
"Well, would Frederick Robyn be a visitor? Or Paul? They must have their own keys. Barry wouldn’t have had to let them in. When Barry said there weren’t any visitors-"
"He wouldn’t necessarily have meant them," Gideon said, snapping alert. "Damn, that’s right. Robyn lent me his key yesterday. He might have been there! Now that’s something I want to look into."
"No, it isn’t," Julie said firmly.
"It isn’t?"
"No. It’s something for you to tell Inspector Bagshawe, and for him to look into."
He smiled. "I keep forgetting; I’m not a detective." He glanced at is watch. "What I am is an anthropologist, and inasmuch as it’s only two o’clock, maybe I ought to go up to the dig this afternoon, after all, and see if I can help Abe out."
"Absolutely not. You told him tomorrow. Anyway, by the time you got back to Charmouth, changed into working clothes, and climbed the hill, it’d practically be dark. How about a drive in the country instead? To Cricket St. Thomas."
"Because you like the name?"
"Of course."
"Fine. I had such a good time not finding Wootton Fitzpaine, I bet not finding Cricket St. Thomas would be just as much fun."
"If we can’t, there’s always Burton Bradstock or Whitechurch Canonicorum. Or, in a pinch, Sleech Wood."
"IT’S only a little thing," Abe muttered, "but still I don’t like it." He was staring at a three-by-five-inch index card in his hand. With his other hand he tugged gently at his lower lip. "Something funny, something funny."
Gideon had arrived at Stonebarrow Fell at 8:30 a.m., expecting to be the first one there, but Barry, Leon, and Sandra were already at the trench, working under Frawley’s direction, and observed by a yawning police constable. Abe had been in the shed, poring over the expedition records spread on the table in front of him. The heater had thoroughly warmed the building, indicating he’d been there for some time, and the coffeepot was already halfway down.
Gideon poured himself a cup. "What’s funny?"
"There’s no milk for the coffee," Abe said, still looking at the card, "only powdered stuff. Tomorrow I’ll bring some real milk, from cows. Partially hydrogenated coconut oil who needs?"
"I’ll bring it," Gideon said. "What’s funny?" he asked again.
Abe handed him the card. "Have a look at this."
It was a "find card," a device that is commonly used on archaeological digs. Its purpose is to make an immediate, on-the-spot record of every object discovered the moment it was found. The dirt smudges on this one suggested that it had been used as intended.
The card was made up as a printed form with blank spaces for written entries. Gideon scanned it quickly. Site: CHA 2-2; Date: 11-1; Loc: Q1-5; Depth: 21" (12 " had been written in before it, but had been crossed out); Descr: Human femur, left, partial. Proximal 100 mm.
There was illegible information scribbled after Matrix, Orientation, and Remarks; and finally, at the bottom, after Recorded by, Leon Hillyer’s name had been scrawled.
It was strange, Gideon thought, that he hadn’t heard anyone mention the earlier finding of a human bone. The femur, of course, was the thigh bone, and the "Proximal 100 mm." would consist of not the shaft itself but of the ball that inserts into the hip socket, along with an inch or two of femoral "neck"-the small, diagonal column of bone that joins the all to the shaft.
When he looked up, Abe said, "So? What do you see?"
Gideon shrugged. "Well, I hadn’t known they’d found any human remains-that is, before Pummy came up- and yet this was discovered a month ago. Aside from that, I don’t see anything strange."
"Okay, now look at this." He slid an open bound notebook across the table. "This is the field catalog. Look at November first."
Gideon looked and blinked with surprise. "There’s only one entry: ‘Number one-forty-nine: Four faience beads.’ There’s no bone listed."
"That’s right, and that’s what’s funny. Nathan is a little fartootst, but he knows how to run a dig, and when a dig is run right, every night you take the find cards and you enter the information in the permanent field catalog. You don’t miss a night. Otherwise, numbers get mixed up, things get lost… You know this; what am I telling you?"
"You’re right," Gideon said. "It was probably Frawley’s job to maintain the catalog."
"It was definitely Frawley’s job." Abe took back the notebook and placed his thin hands on it, one on top of the others. "I looked through the whole thing, and nowhere is a mention of a human bone; not a peep." He closed the book and finished his coffee with a gulp. "So the big question is: Why not? Why didn’t Frawley write it down in the permanent catalog? And where is this mysterious human femur, left, partial? It’s not in with the other finds."