Time Enough To Die, page 12
"Chance would be a fine thing,” Gareth responded skeptically.
Sweeney, with Reynolds on his heels, worked his way to their sides. “...the sun-god Mithras. Appealed to the legionaries, I suppose, because of the bit about the immortality of the soul. A shame the Druids and the Romans couldn't agree politically, the Druidic religion also believed in immortality. The Celts were fierce fighters, they thought if they died they'd move on to a better world—we've heard that one often enough ourselves, eh? Fools, the lot of them."
"Mankind's religious impulse is generally directed toward some concept of life after death,” Matilda pointed out. “None of us want to believe that when the final curtain comes down, the play is over."
"Is that what ghosts are?” hazarded Gareth. “The actors lingering on for a few curtain calls?"
Matilda laughed. “That's as good an explanation as any."
"Ghosts?” repeated Reynolds, his voice edged with sarcasm.
"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” Sweeney gestured toward the exposed column drums. “And these are the remains of the temple to Augustus or whoever—maybe that inscription Caterina is working on will tell us."
Reynolds's beady eyes glittered. “I reckon that's where my statuary came from."
"Could be, could be.... “Sweeney led Reynolds away.
Gareth looked at Matilda. Matilda shrugged. “I can only sense guilt in someone if he feels guilty. Reynolds might feel justified in stealing his own artifacts. He might feel justified in murdering someone who threatened to turn him in. That bluster of his is like white noise, it muffles a lot of what's going on beneath."
"Super."
"Cheer up. It's early days yet."
"No, it's not. Not when the beggar almost did you over yesterday."
Even Gareth's rudimentary senses picked up on Matilda's evasion tactic. “It's lunch time, isn't it? I think I'll have curry, it's a cold day."
They surfaced to find the students filing down the hillside, Ashley bringing up the rear. Reynolds had apparently invited himself to lunch. He walked along with Jennifer and Courtney, chatting them up. They laughed politely at his jokes.
Linda Burkett had stuck Reynolds's boorishness because she planned to do a deal with him, Gareth thought. He couldn't imagine why Della had married the man. Something to do with low self-esteem, probably. He opened the gate for Ashley and she skipped through, shooting him a smile. Distractedly he returned it.
Voices coasted down the wind. Matilda glanced back over her shoulder and Gareth followed her eye. Jason and Caterina still stood over the inscription. “Yeah, right,” he said. “You were out here in the dark checking for mud. There's a word for girls like you, you know."
"I don't understand,” protested Caterina. “It is treasure here. It is important. What is your problem?"
Jason responded with a four-letter directive Gareth hoped wasn't in Caterina's vocabulary. He drew back his foot as though to kick the scattered blocks of the inscription. Caterina defended them with a push so firm he staggered. Jason repeated his injunction and plunged down the hill, his face suffused with rage.
"That sucks,” said Ashley. Matilda shook her head. Gareth closed the gate, muttering, “kids!” beneath his breath. But then, if everyone pursued their relationships in a calm and considerate fashion, he'd be out a job.
A white crane glided to a landing amongst the distant willows. Two crows glared balefully down from the eaves of the hotel as the students went inside.
Saturday dawned as cold and misty as Friday, but by the time Gareth emerged from the dining room satiated with eggs, bacon and sausage, the sun was breaking through the clouds. Most of the students had left early, taking the inter-city coach to brighter lights, although a few still lingered in Corcester. He glimpsed Ashley curled up with a book before the electric fire in the sitting room, the headphones of her CD player clamped to her ears. When she glanced up and saw him watching her, she made a face that was part grin, part grimace. He waved and went on his way.
Clapper stood behind the reception desk. “And what have you laid on for the weekend?” he asked.
"A little research, a lot of note-taking,” Gareth replied.
He passed Caterina on the stairs. "Buon giorno!" she said cheerfully.
"Good morning.” Jason had left with the other students—his and Caterina's affair was already over. Affairs, Gareth thought, are never bought on the cheap. More than one of his own had ended costing dearly in truth and trust. He collected his camera bag from his room and went back downstairs.
Matilda stood in front of the hotel contemplating the peekaboo sun. “I'm off for a ride,” Gareth told her.
"To the traveler's camp?” she asked.
No point to flanneling with Matilda, was there? “It's time I had a look about the place, yes."
"Good luck. I'm going to check out the bookstore behind the bank. Don't worry, I'll stay out of trouble."
Gareth hoped so. With a half-salute he turned toward Fortuna Stud, where Great Caesar's Ghost was looking inquisitively over the fence. He offered the horse his hand and received a wet breath in return. He walked on wiping his palm on his jeans.
Reynolds's beak of a nose was already out and about, sniffing round the stables. “Chatting up Caesar, were you? Would you care to take him out? He needs the exercise."
"Oh yes, certainly,” Gareth said, beaming. “I'm honored!"
Reynolds summoned Jimmy, who chased down the horse and had him saddled before Gareth could do more than inquire about Della's health.
"The old trouble-and-strife?” Reynolds answered. “She's a bit pulled down. Gone to see the doctor again. Can't stick the cold. Always at me to take her to Greece or Ibiza. Ought to send her alone, just to get shut of her."
Gareth forced a polite smile, wondered why Reynolds had married Della to begin with, and mounted Caesar.
What a magnificent animal! He paced out of the stable yard like his namesake entering Rome in triumph. No matter that he had hardly distinguished himself at the Grand National.
As soon as Caesar was warmed up, Gareth prodded him into a run. The horse moved effortlessly, his great muscles flexing, his hooves drumming the damp earth. Birds flew up from the trees along the river. Durslow loomed ahead. Exhilarated, Gareth turned Caesar toward the fence enclosing the rocky upward slope. The horse leaped the closed gate like a puff of thistledown.
Gareth glanced round, but no one had seen him taking liberties with such expensive horseflesh. He reined Caesar to a more sedate pace. Instead of taking the path upward to Durslow he took the one leading down to the road and the layby where the travelers were camped, pausing once or twice to take photos.
The encampment looked like a setting for a Mad Max movie. Battered caravans, cars, and buses were scattered haphazardly over what had once been an attractive little park. If any of the buses sported red scrapes Gareth couldn't tell. Their original colors had disintegrated into a patchwork of dents, paint, and rust.
Music blared from at least two caravans, the boom of the bass reverberating in Gareth's teeth. Heavy metal music wasn't evidence of devil-worship, though. Look as he might, Gareth didn't see a single bloody altar.
Dogs pawed through piles of rubbish. A woman carrying a child, a shovel, and a roll of loo paper picked her way over a broken-down fence into the shadows of the fir plantation. The cool breeze did little to dispel a stench of sausage, sewage, and smoke. Several scruffy men were nursing bottles of beer round a small fire. When they saw the approaching rider they stood and swaggered forward, their expressions far from welcoming. Gareth sat a little taller in the saddle. Caesar shook his head, making his bridle jingle.
"Who are you?” one of the men demanded.
"Gareth March. I'm from the Times. I'd like to interview you."
Another man suggested possible uses for the Times.
The door of a nearby caravan opened and a dark-haired man appeared, buckling his belt. Just as the door swung shut Gareth glimpsed a woman inside, wearing, so far as he could tell, nothing more than an unbuttoned shirt.
The others parted to let the man through. “Gareth-bleedin’ toff-March,” announced an anonymous voice.
"Nicholas Veliotes,” said the man, with an unnecessarily familiar pat on Caesar's neck. “What're you on about, March?"
So this was Nick, eh? Gareth repeated his introduction, adding, “Wouldn't you like to have your side of the story represented in the Times?"
"That's rich,” said Nick. “Who buys the Times, then, save sods of politicians who care more about their own arses than about making jobs and providing housing? They don't want to read about us. Out of sight, out of mind."
"Here's your chance to sort them out. Tell me your life story, where you've lived, how you get along...."
Caesar leaped straight up, corkscrewed, and did a fair approximation of a jitterbug. Convulsively Gareth's knees tightened. He grabbed for the rim of the saddle and managed not only to quiet the horse but also to retain his camera bag. Scowling, he spun to face his audience.
The men were falling about laughing. Except for Nick, who took a bear-like man with a scraggly beard by the scruff of the neck and made him hand over a pen-knife. “Well done, boyo. Knock him about and the pigs knock us about, don't they?"
Gareth focused on the pen knife, swallowed, and said more calmly than he felt, “I'll overlook that, Nick, if you'll talk to me."
"Bugger off,” said Nick. He tossed the knife in the air, catching and closing it as it came down, and grinned.
It wasn't on for a detective to murder his suspect, tempted as he might be. Gareth pulled Caesar round and touched his heels to his flanks. Tossing his head disdainfully, the horse leaped into a run, cleared the fence across the road, and thundered up the hillside.
Gareth didn't pull up until he was round the curve of the hill, out of sight of the camp. Muttering obscenities, he leaped down from the saddle and inspected Caesar's flank. A shallow cut about two inches long broke the smooth chestnut hair. It wasn't bleeding badly. Good show, he told himself. That interview had gone down a bomb, hadn't it, risking another man's horse, letting the sods make him look like an idiot—a good thing Matilda hadn't been along, even placid Bodie would've objected to a knife in the flank and thrown Matilda on her head.
Gareth apologized to Caesar, mounted again, and turned toward Corcester. At least, he thought, he'd spotted a possible murder weapon. In the hands of not only one, but two arrogant bastards with enough neck to make trouble, if not to kill.
Man and horse returned to Fortuna Stud very slowly, without any further incidents, although Gareth suspected his face was still red as a beet. Once in the stable yard he pointed out the cut to Jimmy, but before he could confess to its origins the old man said, “So you walked him into a thorn bush or a fence post, did you?” And with a hostile glare at Gareth, he led Caesar away. “We'll set you to rights, won't we, boy?” The horse whickered his grievances.
Gareth turned toward the house. He had to own up to exposing Caesar to danger. A task that might not be as awkward as he feared, he realized as he walked by the open door of the garage—Reynolds's red MG wasn't there.
Della answered his knock on the door. She really did look ill, flushed and feverish. Clasping her jersey tightly across the chest of her blouse, she waved away Gareth's apologies about the horse. “I'm sure it was an accident, the New Agers are really quite pleasant, simply down on their luck.... Please come in, surely you'd like to see Adrian's collection. He's not here, he's—well, he's gone away."
No time like the present. “If you're quite sure...."
Della motioned him through the doorway.
Gareth stepped inside and left his boots in the entry. The house was stiflingly hot.
Della led him to a sitting room that was aggressively masculine, all dark leather and tweed, with a vague aroma of bay rum and cigars. A packed bookshelf stood against one wall. Against another stood a glass case containing polished stone, bronze, silver, and even a glint of gold.
"Would you care for tea?” Della asked.
What Gareth really wanted was beer, but he accepted the tea gratefully, and took advantage of her absence fetching it to look over the antiquities. Matilda would know what everything was, where it came from, and what its mother's maiden name had been. To Gareth the display might as well have been a museum jumble sale. Tiny faces looked up at him from various bowls, platters, and figurines. That was a lamp, he reckoned, and that was a strainer. Sweeney had said half Reynolds's things were fakes. Some of them looked bright and shiny enough to have been manufactured last week.
After the controversy over the Romano-British bronzes, Gareth had expected Reynolds to own large pieces of statuary. But everything here was small enough to fit into a rucksack. Easier to smuggle, he told himself.
Della returned carrying a tea-tray. Gareth cleared some magazines off a low table. He noted a Sotheby's catalog and a booklet of instructions for a metal detector, as well as two issues of Treasure Trove, one with a cover story on a sunken Manila galleon and the headline, “Investment Opportunity!"
Perched on the edge of her chair, Della poured and served as punctiliously as the Queen at a garden party. Gareth sipped his tea and asked, “Are you also interested in antiquities, Mrs. Reynolds?"
"Della, please,” she said with a shy smile. “In a way—I taught history once, before my marriage, at a public school.... I like to collect ceramic pieces."
"Dr. Gray was telling me about a shop in Borley Arcade that sells both ceramics and antiquities."
"Oh yes, I bought a lovely Portmeirion vase there, only eight pounds. Celia was a schoolmistress of mine. She gave me a discount."
Oh. All right then. Gareth ticked off one question answered, not that the answer wasn't going to create more questions. “The murdered girl worked there, didn't she? Did you know her?"
Della gaze fell so abruptly to her cup Gareth expected to hear a splash. “I met her, once, when she was here talking to Adrian about artifacts from Cornovium—the Roman fort.... Of course you know its name, you're working there."
"It must have been a terrible shock to you when she was found dead."
"I remember the night. It was filthy weather. Adrian had planned to go to a town-planning session but decided to stay in. Clapper rang up with the news."
"That would have been the night the victim was found, then, two days later."
The color drained from Della's face so quickly she went a sickly green. She fussed with the teapot. “Let me warm your cup for you, Mr. March. Gareth."
He extended his cup. The spout of the teapot clattered against its edge as she poured. Had the time lag between the murder and its discovery never occurred to her when she was giving her and her husband's alibi? He couldn't ask her point-blank, though. He didn't dare push her too hard.
Setting the teapot down, she clasped her hands in her lap, pressed her trousered knees together, and hunched as though avoiding a blow.
Gareth made a mental note to ask Watkins about the weather on the first of February and changed the subject. “You taught history? You have a brilliant library.” He nodded toward the shelf. Books leaned together across gaps. Many of the titles were about the Celts, others focused on the Romans. When he saw Antonia Fraser's The Warrior Queens he felt a leap of inspiration worthy of Matilda herself. “Your horse, Bodie. Is she named for Boudicca?"
Again a blush rose in Della's cheeks, and a furtive gleam touched her eyes. “Oh yes. How very clever of you. I've always admired Boudicca, she was quite the fighter, wasn't she? She paid the Romans back good and proper."
"And a lot of innocent people died for it,” Gareth pointed out.
"Is anyone really innocent? I mean, really?"
That was a good one. Gareth didn't answer.
"Boudicca was a Druidess. The Celts didn't stifle women like the Romans did. Like we do now.... “She leaned forward. The top of her blouse gaped open. Gareth kept his eyes on her face, but even so she gasped and quickly buttoning the top button. Her enthusiasm, her color, drained away again. “I'm sorry. I was speaking out of turn."
"Not at all.” Gareth was sweating. He could hardly breathe in the hothouse atmosphere. He put down his empty cup and stood. “Thank you. I'm terribly sorry about the horse, if there are any vet's bills...."
"No, no,” Della murmured into her chest. “Not to worry."
Gareth fled into the entryway, reclaimed his boots, and burst into the open air. He needed to talk to Watkins. The travelers had the means, Reynolds had the opportunity, and Della, perhaps, the motive. She seemed too timid to kill out of jealousy, though—assuming any woman in her right mind would be jealous of a git like Reynolds. The motive was greed—wasn't it?
He must tell Matilda that he'd traced the receipt. That he still had no connection between the travelers and Linda Burkett. That Della might be desperate, but she was also pitiful.
He strode back to the hotel, shaking the mud of Fortuna Stud from his feet.
Chapter Ten
Her mother would be proud of her for attending church. Ashley wasn't sure whether she felt virtuous or nauseated. She stifled a burp that tasted of her morning tomatoes and bacon and glanced at her watch. She was meeting Nick here at four. It was only eleven now. He wasn't in the congregation, no surprise there.
Light streamed in multi-colored beams across the rows of faces and into the shadowy corners of the ancient building. Matilda sat beside Ashley with her hands folded in her lap. Her serene face was lifted toward the pulpit, listening to the minister speak about loving one's neighbor as oneself. More than a few raised chins and tight lips in his audience—not least those of Watkins, Clapper, and Reynolds—suggested to Ashley that he was pleading for tolerance for the travelers.
Ashley tried to focus on the sacred rather than the profane. Not that Nick was profane. He was a scholar. If the local people only realized that, they wouldn't be so frightened of him and his friends.
