Death at Bishop's Keep (12 page)

“The inscription may tell us something about the ring's owner,” Mr. Sheridan said, taking the lens out of his eye.

“But it can't be read,” the inspector objected. “It's gibberish.”

“It can't be read by us, certainly,” Mr. Sheridan agreed, pocketing the pad. “I believe it is Middle Egyptian. It appears to me that there are two names here, perhaps a prayer.” He pointed to the last figure, which appeared to be a cross with a loop. “This is an ankh, which represents eternal life. That's as much as I can make out, more's the pity. However, there's a chap in the Egyptology section of the British Museum who reads hieroglyphics as if he were reading
The Times.
With your permission, I propose to send this copy to him.”

Feeling pinned, the inspector said, “I s'pose you may as well give it a go.” He sat back, his gloomy curiosity fully aroused. Most men of Mr. Sheridan's class scarcely spoke to police, even when they were required to do so by official business, deeming it beneath their dignity to associate with someone at the level of sweeps and ratcatchers. He frowned, curiosity darkening to suspicion. Why would a gentleman go to the trouble of photographing a dead body, bringing the photos to the police station, and engaging in a discussion of the evidence—especially a gentleman with the fingers of a forger? He straightened up.

“I don't b‘lieve you've said, sir, where you're stayin'. In case I might have a need to talk further with you about this case.”

Mr. Sheridan was shuffling photographs. “I am a guest at Marsden Manor, Dedham,” he said absently. “If I am needed, you may send for me there.” He laid two pictures in front of them. “Did you notice these, Inspector? The one on the left is a photograph of a pair of footprints.”

The inspector frowned. Upon his arrival at the excavation at daybreak this morning, he had discovered to his chagrin (but not to his surprise) that Sergeant Battle had once again neglected to secure the scene of a crime. All footprints had been obliterated. The sergeant had reported that there were some, and Trabb had provided a clumsy drawing, which lay now in his drawer. But neither drawing nor report provided any useful detail. The inspector had thought that the footprints were gone forever—but he had been wrong. They were preserved here, in this photograph.

“And this on the right,” Mr. Sheridan continued, tapping it with his thumb, “is an enlargement of that on the left. Observe the enhanced detail. Much more can be seen in the photograph than the naked eye might observe at the actual scene of the crime.”

“Can it, now?” the inspector said darkly. Contrivances like the camera—and the typewriter and the telephone—were helpful and laborsaving. But he knew where to draw the line. A device that revealed
more
than the eye was not, in his opinion, to be fully trusted. Such an art could fabricate as easily as it could inform.

“It most certainly can.” Mr. Sheridan took a pencil-sized silver case out of his pocket, flicked a button, and out popped a pointer. “Observe this footprint,” he said, tracing its outline on the left-hand photograph with the pointer. “It is clearly that of a man's shoe. Here”—pointing—“are a second and a third, all directed toward the excavation—and rather unsteadily at that. Notice the unequal distances between the prints, and the uneven distribution of weight, first upon one foot, then the other.” He shifted his pointer to the enlargement. “This print, this small round indentation—is it not the print of the walking stick upon which the man is leaning heavily?” He reached into another pocket and took out a hand-held magnifying glass, which he handed to the inspector.

Still nursing his chagrin over the ineptness that had denied him the firsthand view of the footprints to which he was entitled, the inspector took the lens and scrutinized the enlarged indentation. “But no walking stick was found,” he growled.

“No,” Mr. Sheridan said, “it was not.”

The inspector narrowed his eyes. He could not object to the gentleman's conclusions, although they struck him as being of the hocus-pocus variety, rather like that preposterous “consulting detective” whose exploits were all the rage. He might, however, question the gentleman's motives for interesting himself so deeply in this case. He might, in fact, suspect the gentleman himself. “And what, sir, is your business in the Colchester area?” he asked, putting down the lens.

Mr. Sheridan reshuffled the photographs. “As I said, I am visiting the Marsdens. As well, Sir Archibald has invited me to make a photographic record of the progress of the excavation here in Colchester.” Another photo. The pointer again. “See here, Inspector. These are wheelprints in the cart track near the excavation.”

The inspector folded his arms, no longer to be seduced. “What of 'em? Looks like the victim came by cab, don't it? He must have done, anyway. Bit out of the way to walk, for an unsteady man who's got to use a walking stick.”

“But notice the ivory rule,” Mr. Sheridan said, gesturing energetically, “which indicates the gauge. The distance between the wheels is only five feet. The axle width of a hansom cab is six feet.” Two more photographs, side to side. “Moreover, observe this mark in the print—that of a partial break in the iron rim of the right wheel. Here it is in this photograph, and here”—pointing again—“in this one, at an interval of approximately twelve and one half feet.”

Inspector Wainwright pushed his lips in and out. “Meanin'?”

“Meaning that this vehicle was not a cab, sir. Its wheelbase is much too small. Further, the diameter of the wheel is only about four feet, while that of most hansoms is roughly five.” At the clouded look on the inspector's face he added, “You recall pi, of course. The diameter of a circle equals its circumference divided by three and fourteen sixteen ten thousandths.”

“Of course,” the inspector said, humoring him. “Pie.”

Mr. Sheridan nodded. “But that is less important than the fact that this vehicle's wheels have iron rims, while hansom cabs have rubber tires. It is clear, sir, that this is a rather small carriage, lightweight, of the about-town variety, with a break in the iron rim of the right wheel. Further, if you will be so good as to notice the hoofprints—here, and again here—you will observe that the vehicle was drawn by a horse lame in the left hind leg.”

The inspector managed to suppress a smile, the first of the day. “And what kind of harness would you say this horse was wearin'?”

Mr. Sheridan appeared not to notice the inspector's amusement. He stacked the photographs, placing those of the corpse on top. “I have prepared these copies for you and have retained the plates,” he said crisply. “If you require additional prints, you have only to ask. Should your inquiries uncover the victim's identity, please be so kind as to inform me of the particulars.” He took out a gold pocket watch and looked at it. “In the meantime, I shall attempt to discover the meaning of the inscription in the ring. I also plan to return to the excavation. While I fear that the area has already been tramped, the cart track may have remained undisturbed, at least sufficiently to allow me to acquire certain additional data that may be useful.” He took up his empty portfolio and his hat. “Good day to you, Inspector.”

The gentleman had scarcely cleared the stoop when the inspector bellowed out, “Battle!”

The sergeant appeared at the door. “Sir?” “That gent who was just here,” the inspector said urgently. “Put somebody on his back, smartish.”

“But I don't have nobody to put on 'im,” the sergeant protested.

“Got
yourself,
haven't you?” The inspector spoke icily, feeling that Battle should put forth some extra effort to atone for his sins of the day before. “Fetch your bicycle, man, and hop to it!”

“Yessir,” the sergeant said, and disappeared.

The inspector went back to his table, balled Dr. Forsythe's unreadable autopsy report, and pitched it against the wall.

“The archaeologist must be something of a detective, in the sense that he must extract from the site enough evidence to allow him to conclude what happened there, when it happened, and to whom. If the archaeologist is also an historian (and the best are), he weaves this information into a larger narrative which allows him to conclude why it happened.”

—WILLIAM ALBERT An Introduction to Historical Archaeology

 

 

 

A
n hour later, Charles was seated in Sir Archibald Fairfax's field tent at the excavation, declining an offer of tea. “Thank you,” he said, “but I just had a cup with Inspector Wainwright.”

“The police!” Sir Archibald exclaimed, concerned. “My dear boy, is everything quite all right?”

“Oh, quite,” Charles said. “I dropped off my photographs of yesterday's find.”

“With the police?” Sir Archibald asked, puzzled. “But I fail to see—” His face cleared. “Oh, to be sure. The dead man in the dig. I'd forgotten. We made a discovery yesterday afternoon—another mosaic. Drove the miserable wretch straight out of my mind.”

“It's the miserable wretch I've come about, actually,” Charles said. “I've been to the excavation after more photographs, but the place is a muddle. Yesterday's police work was altogether negligent. No attention paid to roping off the site or maintaining proper custody of evidence.”

“What did y'expect?” Sir Archibald asked pettishly. “Bad mannered as bison, police. Brainless. Tramping about, never minding where they put their boots. Almost as bad as women,” he added, “whisking along in their deuced skirts. Shifty as a squadron of street sweepers.”

“It's hardly the fault of the police, I suppose,” Charles reflected. “Not much training, little education, no money for equipment or adequate staff. Not held in high regard by society.”

“And not a thought in their heads for the preservation of history,” Sir Archibald went on, as if Charles hadn't spoken. “Police
or
women.”

“I suppose you can hardly expect them to have a proper scientific attitude,” Charles said, half to himself. “Their outlook is dictated by tradition. Scarcely disposed to the progressive point of view.”

“Puts me in mind of the way our business was done twenty years ago—
still
done, on most sites.” Sir Archibald stood up and started to stride back and forth. “No attention to the proper documentation of artifacts, to stratigraphic records, to analysis. Does no good to dig, if carelessness results in the loss of proper
in situ
information. Like that great oaf Schliemann, you recall, the idiot who destroyed Troy while he was digging it up. Bloody treasure hunter, yanking artifacts out of the ground like turnips. Once something's dug up, it can't be put back.” He raised his hand in an imperial gesture. “Our paramount responsibility is to extract every ounce of information that the ground can reveal. Without that, what's in the museum is of no more worth than bits salvaged out of the dustbin.”

“Just so,” Charles said hastily, remembering that Sir Archibald's animosity toward Heinrich Schliemann could lead to an hour's impassioned discourse. And while Sir Archibald's remarks opened several intriguing parallels between archaeology and criminal detection, he needed to get on with the business.

“I have a question for you, Sir Archibald,” he said, “regarding vehicular access to the dig. Specifically, the cart track behind the spot where the body was found. What vehicles might be expected to use that track?”

“None, sir,” Sir Archibald said firmly. “Horses are as destructive as police—worse, when one considers the size of the beast. Once when I was working at Mycenae, a horse went berserk and crashed into a field tent, smashing a grand lot of urns, not to mention two fine young archaeologists. No, no, horses won't do at all. Debris is removed to the spoil heaps by barrow.”

“I see,” Charles said. “So any hoofprints—”

“Don't
tell
me that you have found hoofprints!”

“I'm afraid so. Along the cart track.”

Sir Archibald shook his head. “Patrols,” he muttered. “There will have to be patrols, day and night. And a cordon, and—”

Charles stood up. “I leave it to you, Sir Archibald,” he said. “I am confident that you will take every measure in your power to protect the site from intrusion.”

“Oh, I shall, sir,” Sir Archibald said, with great fervor. “You can depend upon it.” He sat down heavily. “Police,” he muttered. “Horses.” He dropped his head into his hands. “Next thing you know, it'll be women.”

“Excuse me, sir.” Charles did not turn, but he recognized the voice from the doorway behind him. It belonged to the student archaeologist who had started the whole thing.

Sir Archibald looked up. “What is it?” he asked testily. “Well, well, speak up. Not another dead man, I hope?”

“No,” the student said. “Actually, it's a woman.”

Sir Archibald leaped to his feet, his face filled with horror. “A dead woman?” he cried.

“Oh, no, sir,” the student said hastily. “She's very much alive.”

Charles glanced over his shoulder. The first thing he saw was a pair of ankle-high black boots and a dark serge divided skirt, almost like full-cut trousers, so short as to show an inch of black stocking. Startled, his gaze traveled upward—past slim dark jacket, white shirt, manly tie—and came to rest on the woman's face, topped by a mound of undisciplined auburn hair.

It was Kathryn Ardleigh.

“0 let us love our occupations,
Bless the squire and his relations,
Live upon our daily rations,
And always know our proper stations.”