Alasdair did not mind hard work, not even menial work, as long as he felt that he was appreciated, that his work was contributing to his future. The archaeological expedition might seem an odd choice of holiday for a medical student, but he liked the idea of being the physician for the crew, and he thought that archaeology was a rather posh hobby for one to have. The right sort of people had an interest in antiquities; it might serve him well in the future.
He smiled to himself. Besides, there was always the promise of adventure, which appealed to him. The crass little American might be right about treasure in the Highlands. There were certainly enough legends about it. Alasdair would be glad of a bit of treasure; he could use it more than the Crown could. It was a bit tiresome, at times, being all alone in the world and having to associate with scores of rich kids whose parents were seeing them through medical school with cars, flats, and a decent allowance, while Alasdair the Orphan worked and scrimped and studied hard to keep up with them. He was going to make it, though. Nothing was going to hold him back.
Idly, he began to scratch in the soil with the auger. Hello! What was that? . . . Nothing he need mention, he decided a few moments later. Lunch was definitely out.
"How did your morning go?" Elizabeth asked Denny in a carefully neutral tone.
"Just as you think it did, I'm sure," he murmured, scooping up the last bit of canned spaghetti from his tin plate. "She's bloody hopeless, is Gitte. Tell her everything twice, and she still gets it wrong! We managed, though. I finally let her hold the clipboard when I wasn't using it, and that was the extent of her assistance."
"I wonder if I'd be the same way if I were trying to
"I shouldn't think so," said Denny. "You're the competent sort, aren't you?"
Elizabeth sighed. "I wonder if I am. Look at this." She held up a forefinger with a small jagged cut just beginning to scab.
"How did you do that?" Denny asked. "That's bad-looking."
"I was walking along the shore just before lunch, and I saw something metal in the sand, so I ran and pulled on it." She grinned. "I guess I had caught some of Owen's madness! I was expecting to find the Lord of the Isles' crown, at the very least."
"And it was . . . ?"
"A rusty old piece of metal. Probably off a shipwreck, or even an old tin can! And I got cut trying to retrieve it. That will teach me to go chasing treasure!"
"It's more than a scratch," Denny said, inspecting her hand. "What have you done about it?"
"Well, I dipped it in the ocean. And I did think of showing it to Alasdair, but he didn't turn up for lunch. Besides, I'm not sure I'd like the idea of being his patient —not after listening to Gitte run on about him by the hour. Anyway, it's not that bad."
"Well, I can see how you wouldn't want Alasdair putting on his doctorly airs for you, but I don't think you can risk getting it infected. Not with us grubbing about in the dirt and all. You'll fetch up with lockjaw if you're not careful. Here, I tell you what—" He fished in the pocket of his trousers and brought out a small plastic bottle. "I'll share my antibiotic tablets with you. They're strong stuff; ought to keep the finger germs at bay."
"Oh, I couldn't take your medicine."
"Go on!" he urged. "This is my second bottle. I'm nearly well, I swear it. This is just my doctor making sure. Go on—take one!"
He shook one small white tablet out of the bottle and put it in her hand. "Okay," Elizabeth said. "I guess it couldn't hurt to take one."
"One a day," said Denny. "We'll give it a week, and if your finger doesn't fall off, we'll pronounce you cured."
Elizabeth laughed. "If I remember to take them."
Owen Gilchrist wondered if the British had ever heard of snipe hunts. More specifically, he wondered if sending him in search of a rowboat had been a British variant of the wild goose chase, because he had not found any sign of a rowboat. He had spent the entire morning wandering around the island like Banquo's ghost, and he hadn't accomplished anything, except to get his month's quota of exercise and more fresh air than he ever wanted.
The dig was beginning to strike Owen as rather a closed shop. Callum was the photographer; Alasdair tested soils; Denny did the surveying. Owen felt that he and the two women were afterthoughts, but he wasn't sure what he could do about it. He was not familiar with British archaeology, and he did not have enough experience to handle any job without supervision, but surely they should be teaching him something. He ought to be good for more than chasing nonexistent boats.
He was afraid that, as usual, he was getting a reputation as an eccentric clown. The bagpipes—they all enjoyed ragging him about that. And perhaps he'd been too enthusiastic about his fascination with crime. But he wasn't stupid, or even incompetent. Owen decided that his fellow workers' attitude was their problem. He certainly didn't intend to alter his personality just to conform with their dull conventionality. Of course, he reflected sadly, he wouldn't have any friends—but he was used to that.
That evening, while they were waiting for their dinner to complete the interminable process of heating up on the Camping Gaz stove, Derek Marchand insisted that each of them give an account of his day.
Alasdair explained in considerable detail exactly what sorts of soil samples he had taken and added that he could use another day or so to complete his testing.
"What did you find?" Owen asked.
Alasdair favored him with a cold smile. "The soil is acidic, of course. Peat bogs on top of limestone. I'm afraid I can't get much more specific than that. We send the samples back to the mainland to be analyzed."
Owen reddened. "Yes, I knew that! I just wondered if you'd found anything of interest."
Another smile. "A cache of Celtic gold, for example?"
Tom Leath pointed out that there had been gold found from that era on other Scottish islands.
"In the Orkneys," Alasdair reminded him.
"I read about a legend once concerning a French ship that left thirty thousand pounds in gold for Bonnie Prince Charlie," Denny said. "No one has ever found that, have they?"
"Not officially," Callum Farthing said. "But I can promise you that it didn't last much past 1745. The MacDonalds probably spent the lot."
"Be that as it may," Derek Marchand said, "we are not here to hunt treasure, but to find knowledge. I personally would rather confirm the existence of a megalithic yard than uncover a trunkful of gold trinkets from some ancient lady's boudoir.''
"How very noble of you," Alasdair drawled.
"Right," said Tom Leath, taking his cue from the expedition leader. "Let's get back on track, then, shall we? We were in the midst of discussing our day's activities."
Callum produced a list of the photographs that he had taken. He and Marchand discussed what other ones might be necessary.
Denny discussed the results of the day's surveying without any mention of Gitte's incompetence.