Old Bones by Aaron Elkins

Oliver—killed the Nazi in retribution for his cousin’s death. Certainly, there is no question but that Kassel disappeared with no trace in October 1942. I think that now we have some reason to think that Guillaume—"
    "—buried him in the cellar," John said.
    "So it would seem. No one appears to know for sure what was done with the body, and Guillaume, they tell me, hadn’t talked of it for over forty years. He didn’t happen to mention it to you, Dr. Oliver?"
    "Not a word. I was only here for a couple of days. We talked about phylogenetic relationships between the Middle Pleistocene hominids and the western Neanderthals."
    "Hey, no kidding," John said. "That must have been a blast. I’m sorry I missed it."
    It
was
a blast, Gideon remembered. Afterwards, the ailing old man had told him he hadn’t enjoyed an evening so much in years, and Gideon had believed him. He thought about Guillaume some more, staring without seeing at the lights of the big trucks flashing by on their night hauls to Rennes. "Inspector," he said, "do you know just what it was that happened to Guillaume?"
    "He was drowned in the tide."
    "Yes, but do you know how it happened? Did he have an attack of some kind? A stroke?"
    "No, I don’t think so. He was rather far out collecting shells, and he didn’t become aware of the tide until it was too late for him to get back. When he began to run, he stepped into some quicksand. It’s very treacherous there."
    "Mm."
    "Exactly what is it that bothers you?" Joly asked after a pause.
    "It’s just that he didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’d go out there without knowing exactly when the tide was coming in and exactly when he’d have to start back. He was fascinated by the tides. He had some kind of theory
    about biannual cycles, and he kept tide schedules going
    back a dozen years."
    "When was it you saw him?"
    "Almost two years ago."
    "Ah. Well, as I understand it, his health had declined since then; his alertness too, I’m sorry to say. He might easily have become confused."
    "I suppose so," said Gideon, unconvinced. "Still—"
    "Dr. Oliver," Joly said briskly, "I can assure you there is nothing questionable about Guillaume du Rocher’s death. He was simply caught unawares. Half a dozen witnesses saw it, one with binoculars. Afterwards his body was found buried in the sand up to the hips. It’s happened many, many times before, and it will happen again. The bay is famous for it."
    "I guess so."
    John turned around. "Okay, Doc, let’s hear it. What’s your theory?"
    "I don’t have one," Gideon said truthfully. "It’s just that… hell, I don’t know. It doesn’t sound right."
    "Perhaps we would do better," Joly said with authority, "to discuss the case at hand—the skeleton in the cellar. Several of the people at the manoir remember Kassel; their descriptions corroborate one another, and I am hoping that your investigation will bear them out: a tall, powerful man, very Aryan in appearance—"
    "What?"
    Joly’s cool eyes flicked at him in the rearview mirror. "Pardon? Have I said something—? Ah, of course. You prefer not to know who it is you’re trying to identify. I apologize; you told us on the first day of the seminar."
    "Well, that’s true. Forensic anthro’s like anything else. You tend to find what you’re looking for. But—"
    "Still, inasmuch as it’s almost certain that the bones are Herr Kassel’s…" Again he glanced at Gideon. "You think not?"
    The words were courteous enough, but even in the small mirror the afflicted expression in Joly’s eyes was unmistakable: What have I done that God has seen fit to inflict this difficult man on me?
    "I think not," Gideon said, and told him straightforwardly about his height and weight calculations. "Five-feet-nine, tops. A hundred and forty pounds, tops. There’s no way anybody could mistake him for‘tall and powerful,’ Inspector."
    Joly considered this without pleasure. "Don’t forget about the psychological component,