stone?” Matilda asked.
"The one Sweeney and Caterina were going on about?” inquired Gareth.
"That one, yes. It was set up in front of the headquarters building, and later on someone re-used it as a building stone, that's why it was so near the surface."
Matilda's head tilted to the side like a bird eyeing a worm. “And what were the names on the stone?"
"Marcus Cornelius Felix,” Ashley replied, “and his wife Claudia Sabina. Makes you wonder what they looked like, doesn't it?"
"Oh my, how obliging of Howard and Caterina,” said Matilda. “Marcus and Claudia. Ground truth."
Gareth repeated, “Ground truth, eh?"
Ashley, out of her depth, backpedaled. “Well, see you later."
"See you later,” Matilda told her, and Gareth said, “Cheers."
He'd smiled at her twice now, Ashley thought. He was just being polite, though. She turned, and then stopped to let Clapper squeeze through the narrow lane between tables. Behind her Gareth said, “Now you'll be telling me it was this Marcus and Claudia you saw last night."
"Yes,” Matilda answered, “that's what I'm telling you. Obviously I should have told you then for you to be convinced now, but I was trying not to annoy you. Not annoying you is turning out to be a task equal to telling the tide to turn, I'm afraid."
Gareth laughed. “Just give me the evidence, Matilda. I'll sort it out."
"That's the deal, isn't it?"
Clapper edged on by. Ashley plopped down beside Jennifer. Her attention, though, was still focused behind her.
Did Matilda mean she'd seen the ghosts of the old Romans? Yeah, right, Ashley thought, and yet something else in her mind said, Cool. Whatever, Gareth must be using Matilda's experience as an angle for his story, although it was odd he'd use the word “evidence."
Wait a minute, Ashley told herself. Durslow Edge. That was where the murdered woman's body had been found. And she'd seen Gareth talking to the local policeman, hadn't she? What if he wasn't writing an article just on “Our Roman Heritage” but also one on the murder, too? That kind of story was really popular. Bookstores carried dozens of true crime books, their covers lurid in red and black. Matilda must be co-authoring or researching or something. They had to keep a book deal a secret, of course. Journalists could be really competitive.
Ashley felt obscurely pleased with her deductive abilities and promised herself not to spill the beans.
Jennifer shoved the open sketch book beneath her nose and Ashley focused. The drawing of Matilda was rough and yet energetic, capturing her wise half-smile. “That's awesome,” she said. “I wish I could draw."
"Pick up a pencil and try it,” Jennifer told her.
"Oh, no, I wouldn't be any good."
Clapper plunked down a pile of cardboard coasters. “That's the lady doctor herself, isn't it? She's a canny one, she is."
"Yes.” Ashley glanced over her shoulder at the bronze head and the fair one bent each over its own glass, like casual strangers thrown together on a subway platform.
By early Tuesday afternoon Ashley had cleared the turf from three feet of stone wall, uncovering several courses of masonry. She shouldn't probe any deeper without permission. She stood up, stretched, and looked around for Dr. Sweeney.
A cool breeze drove clouds like gray and white meringues across the sky. One moment the fort was in shadow, the next in dazzling sunlight. Squinting, Ashley spotted Sweeney by the east entrance, giving Adrian Reynolds his daily briefing. For every step the professor took backwards, Reynolds took one forwards, so that the two men danced an awkward waltz.
Reynolds looked like a sinister parrot. His beady black eyes darted hither and thither as he spoke, checking out Matilda and Jennifer poring over a drawing of the memorial stone, and Gareth shoveling busily in Manfred's trench. When he looked at Ashley she bent over her wall again, trying to shut him out. A gynecological exam didn't probe as intimately as Reynolds’
"The one Sweeney and Caterina were going on about?” inquired Gareth.
"That one, yes. It was set up in front of the headquarters building, and later on someone re-used it as a building stone, that's why it was so near the surface."
Matilda's head tilted to the side like a bird eyeing a worm. “And what were the names on the stone?"
"Marcus Cornelius Felix,” Ashley replied, “and his wife Claudia Sabina. Makes you wonder what they looked like, doesn't it?"
"Oh my, how obliging of Howard and Caterina,” said Matilda. “Marcus and Claudia. Ground truth."
Gareth repeated, “Ground truth, eh?"
Ashley, out of her depth, backpedaled. “Well, see you later."
"See you later,” Matilda told her, and Gareth said, “Cheers."
He'd smiled at her twice now, Ashley thought. He was just being polite, though. She turned, and then stopped to let Clapper squeeze through the narrow lane between tables. Behind her Gareth said, “Now you'll be telling me it was this Marcus and Claudia you saw last night."
"Yes,” Matilda answered, “that's what I'm telling you. Obviously I should have told you then for you to be convinced now, but I was trying not to annoy you. Not annoying you is turning out to be a task equal to telling the tide to turn, I'm afraid."
Gareth laughed. “Just give me the evidence, Matilda. I'll sort it out."
"That's the deal, isn't it?"
Clapper edged on by. Ashley plopped down beside Jennifer. Her attention, though, was still focused behind her.
Did Matilda mean she'd seen the ghosts of the old Romans? Yeah, right, Ashley thought, and yet something else in her mind said, Cool. Whatever, Gareth must be using Matilda's experience as an angle for his story, although it was odd he'd use the word “evidence."
Wait a minute, Ashley told herself. Durslow Edge. That was where the murdered woman's body had been found. And she'd seen Gareth talking to the local policeman, hadn't she? What if he wasn't writing an article just on “Our Roman Heritage” but also one on the murder, too? That kind of story was really popular. Bookstores carried dozens of true crime books, their covers lurid in red and black. Matilda must be co-authoring or researching or something. They had to keep a book deal a secret, of course. Journalists could be really competitive.
Ashley felt obscurely pleased with her deductive abilities and promised herself not to spill the beans.
Jennifer shoved the open sketch book beneath her nose and Ashley focused. The drawing of Matilda was rough and yet energetic, capturing her wise half-smile. “That's awesome,” she said. “I wish I could draw."
"Pick up a pencil and try it,” Jennifer told her.
"Oh, no, I wouldn't be any good."
Clapper plunked down a pile of cardboard coasters. “That's the lady doctor herself, isn't it? She's a canny one, she is."
"Yes.” Ashley glanced over her shoulder at the bronze head and the fair one bent each over its own glass, like casual strangers thrown together on a subway platform.
By early Tuesday afternoon Ashley had cleared the turf from three feet of stone wall, uncovering several courses of masonry. She shouldn't probe any deeper without permission. She stood up, stretched, and looked around for Dr. Sweeney.
A cool breeze drove clouds like gray and white meringues across the sky. One moment the fort was in shadow, the next in dazzling sunlight. Squinting, Ashley spotted Sweeney by the east entrance, giving Adrian Reynolds his daily briefing. For every step the professor took backwards, Reynolds took one forwards, so that the two men danced an awkward waltz.
Reynolds looked like a sinister parrot. His beady black eyes darted hither and thither as he spoke, checking out Matilda and Jennifer poring over a drawing of the memorial stone, and Gareth shoveling busily in Manfred's trench. When he looked at Ashley she bent over her wall again, trying to shut him out. A gynecological exam didn't probe as intimately as Reynolds’
Similar Books
