"Did he admit to a lot of shouting and abuse and then storming out?"
"Yes. Did this researcher see the Professor afterwards?" Sam asked.
"No, but she said it was very quiet down that end of the hall after Gould left."
"Well Gould was doing all the shouting, so I'm sure it was. Marsden could still have been alive
and working quietly."
"Or hallucinating and dying in paralysed agony," Jack argued. "Did Gould tell you what they were
arguing about? Can we find a motive for this guy?"
"He said he was angry about Marsden taking off for Peru when he had commitments here. Gould
believed the Professor got his place on the ICOM '98 committee. But I spoke to Prescott this morning
and he claims Haddon Gould would only have got a position on that committee if everyone else in the
Museum, including the cleaning staff, had turned it down first. Not that that matters. It could be
enough that Gould thinks he lost his place to Marsden. I think there's more to Gould's resentment of
the Professor than we know, but I'm not sure it translates into making him capable of murder."
"Well he's odds-on favourite for me. I've organised warrants to search his home and office. I
suppose you still think it's one of this lot," Rigby waved his hand around at the Exhibition.
Sam gave a noncommittal shrug. "How do you suppose Bridger managed to get the second lot of
exhibits here a day early?"
"Um, obviously he put them on an earlier flight. What difference does it make? He still didn't
arrive early enough to be a suspect, so why do you care?" Rigby asked.
"Because it's odd, Jack. Remember Prescott's rave about transporting shows like this? It's not
like Bridger could just turn up at Paris airport with all his stuff and hope to get on the next
available flight."
"If it's bothering you, Sam, why don't you ask him how he managed it? But it's my guess he
probably just knows the right people."
"Maybe. Oh, that reminds me." She pulled out her phone and dialled Rivers' mobile number. "Hey
Rivers, it's Sam. Are you still in Marsden's office?"
"Yep. And I think someone other than our forensics team has been here too."
"Great," Sam moaned. "When you've finished could you track down Robert Ellington and…"
"He's here, Sam."
"Oh. Good. Could you ask him about the dinner he went to on the Wednesday before last, the 9th,
with Prescott and the bods from the Life and Death show. See if he remembers hearing any part of the
conversation between Dr Bridger and Professor Marsden."
"Sure. Do you want to wait while I ask?"
"No. Prescott has arranged for me to see Dr Tremaine at 6 pm in the bar of the Regency Hotel. Can
you meet me there at 6.30?"
"Okay. I've got that info you wanted from the internet. I'll bring it with me."
"Excuse me, are you the police officer who's been looking for me?" A gangly young man, with
receding blonde hair and a pitiful excuse for a moustache, was staring earnestly at Sam through a
pair of round-rimmed glasses. He was wearing jeans, and a T-shirt with the slogan: Archaeologists
Dig Deeper. "Peter Gilchrist," he stated, tapping his own chest.
"Ah, yes, Mr Gilchrist," Sam acknowledged, introducing herself and Rigby. "We wanted to ask you
about your association with Professor Marsden, and when you last saw him."
"Yeah, the poor old bloke. What a way to go, eh?" Gilchrist shoved his hands in his pockets and
stared around the room for a moment. "I'm, or I was, one of Professor Marsden's students. I'm
studying archaeology at Melbourne Uni. The Prof was generous enough to take me on earlier this year
as his assistant, part time."
"Where have you been all week?" Sam asked.
"At home studying. I worked for the Prof on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and some weekends. Like this one
and the last, helping out here. I only found out about him dying yesterday, when he didn't turn up
for our tutorial."
Sam found she was irritated by Gilchrist's habit of either studying her face as if she was an
interesting specimen or not looking at her, or Rigby, at all while he spoke.
"So you saw him on Wednesday," Rigby said.
"Yeah. At the old Museum in the morning. We were cataloguing stuff. Then after lunch we met up
here to help out with a problem Enrico was having with the fittings for the photo displays. The Prof
was in a pretty grumpy mood in the afternoon."
"Was he?" Sam noted. "Did you know he was supposed to fly to Peru today?"
Gilchrist dropped his gaze to concentrate on Sam's chin. "Nah, didn't know about that."
"When did you last see the Professor?" Rigby asked.
"We finished up here at about 4.30 on Wednesday. He was going back to the Library but said he
didn't need me. So I went to the pub and met up with some mates from Uni."
Rigby grunted as Gilchrist walked away inspecting the floor, the walls, the ceiling and the floor
again as he did so. "These museum types keep getting weirder," he complained, "I'm gonna check his
alibi. I don't trust a bloke who can't look you in the eye when he's talking."
"Marsden had words with him on Wednesday." Vasquez had materialised as if from thin air.
"What sort of words Señor Vasquez?" Sam enquired politely.
"Harsh words," Vasquez nodded. "I believe you call it a dressing down. I gather Peter had again
not carried out a task the Professor had set him. Something to do with a late paper. Marsden was
most annoyed. He told Peter that he'd better pull up his socks or even the extra work he was doing
would not help him pass."
"Why didn't you tell us this before now?" Rigby demanded.
Vasquez turned his palms up in apology. "He is, wouldn't you say, an instantly forgettable young
man?"
The bar of the Regency Hotel was lit to provide maximum relief for tired eyes
without leaving patrons completely in the dark. Sam took a seat at the bar, ordered a beer and
surveyed the rest of the clientele. In front of the large tinted window that faced Lonsdale Street,
12 businessmen had pushed some tables together and were noisily giving drink orders to a waitress
who looked like she'd already had enough of customers like them for the day. Two tizzied-up
socialites were sitting in a booth besieged by shopping bags, and the only other woman in the place
looked like she'd been outfitted by the same drag queens Jacqui had met on Thursday night. Her
shoulder-length auburn hair had been given electric shock treatment and she was wearing a loose
purple shirt, gold leggings, and black runners - fine attire for a 20-year-old but this woman
was fast approaching 50. Sam hoped the woman was waiting for a loving husband because if she was on
the prowl for Mr One Night Stand she'd probably only end up with a vice cop. Sam sent up a prayer to
the goddess of single women that she'd never have to hang out in hotel bars to…she slapped
herself mentally. The woman she was being so ageist and judgemental about had a delightfully
charming face, looked fit and braced with energy, and probably had better luck with men than Sam
ever did.
"Isn't it a sign of madness, or something, to drink alone?"
"Adrienne?" Sam said in surprise. "What are you doing here?"
"We're all staying here at the hotel," Adrienne replied, slipping onto the stool beside Sam. "Is
this where you hang out?"
"No," Sam laughed. "I'm waiting for someone."
"Damn. I was going to offer to buy you a drink, Sam. Can I call you Sam when you're obviously off
duty, and…" Adrienne glanced around the room, "…and we're in a bar?"
"I guess so," Sam smiled. "You can buy me a beer too if you like."
"Good. Oh damn!"
"There you are Adrienne, I wish you'd stop wandering off," Marcus Bridger was saying loudly, as
he manoeuvred his way around the tables to the bar. "Detective Diamond," he added brightly. "This is
a pleasant surprise. Or are you following us?"
"Should I be?" Sam asked, wondering what his tweed jacket felt like, up really close.
Bridger smiled suggestively. "Only if you've nothing better to do."
"Oh, well in that case I'll have to give it a miss. I'm taking my grandmother on her first
moonlight parachute jump tonight."
Dr Bridger's taken aback expression dissolved into laughter - a warm, rolling laugh. He
clasped his hands to his chest and gave a slight bow. "I am truly devastated that we cannot stay,"
he said, taking Adrienne by the elbow. "But no doubt we'll be seeing you again."
Hopefully, Sam thought, watching them walk away. She swivelled back to face the bar.
"It seems we are about to have our preconceptions dashed on the rocks of reality."
Oh no, not again. Why do I attract all the nutters? Sam wondered. The wild-haired woman, all
five-foot-four of her, had moved from the other end of the bar to stand beside her.
"I beg your pardon?" Sam asked politely.
"You were no doubt expecting Margaret Rutherford, or a similar large-breasted, tweed-suited
'Miss' of the jolly-hockey-stick type," she stated.
"Dr Tremaine?" Sam was flabbergasted and there was nothing she could do to hide it.
"Indeed. And you my dear look more like a dark-haired Meg Ryan than the Humphrey Bogart of my
expectations. Clearly I should read or watch more contemporary crime fiction."
"What should I do?" Sam asked, worried that if the wind changed now she'd be wide-eyed and
open-mouthed forever.
"Buy me a whisky, dear. And call me Maggie."
Fifteen minutes later, having retreated to a booth together, Sam realised that she'd given Maggie
a complete rundown of the investigation so far, minus the details about the actual cause of death
and likely suspects, but hadn't asked a single question herself.
"I was wondering how you knew Phineas," Maggie commented when Sam mentioned interviewing the
Rites of Life and Death team.
"Who?" Sam asked.
"Marcus. He's known, within the museum community, as P.T. Barnum. The 'P' stands for Phineas."
Maggie explained. "Is he a suspect?" She seemed quite taken by the idea.
Sam shook her head. "He wasn't even in the country."
"So who are your suspects?"
"That's what I wanted to talk to you about, Maggie," Sam said, trying to gain control of the
conversation. "You seem to be the one person who might know if Professor Marsden had any enemies, if
he owed money, why he'd suddenly decide to go to Peru, what that trip has to do with his murder
- if anything, what hancsgoc or hanosgoo means, why…"
"What what means?" Maggie asked.
"I'll get to that in a minute," Sam said. "Can you think of any reason why anyone would want to
kill the Professor?"
Maggie shook her head thoughtfully. "He was a cantankerous old so-and-so but I've no idea why
someone would want to poison him to death."
"Poison? Who told you that?"
"Daley, he…" Maggie stopped when Sam groaned and put her head down on the table.
"That man!" Sam growled, sitting up again. "He's convinced there's a mysterious plot afoot to
ruin ICOM '98, that Marsden's death is just one gory part of it, and that if the press gets hold of
the story they'll be going through his sock drawers to get all the juicy details. And yet he can't
keep his own mouth shut. He may as well hire a float and tell the whole city. I could strangle
him."
"I know how you feel," Maggie laughed. "I have often been tempted to defenestrate him."
"To what?"
"Chuck him out the nearest window, dear. Just to shut him up."
Sam was still laughing when she noticed Rivers enter the bar. She motioned to him to get a drink
before joining them. "You won't tell anyone about the poison will you, Maggie?"
"Pah! Who would I tell?" Maggie assured her.
"Dr Maggie Tremaine, Constable Hercules Rivers," Sam stated, as the latter slid onto the bench
seat beside her. "Don't ask," Sam said, when she noticed Maggie's questioning look.
"You can tell me later, Hercules," Maggie suggested, leaning over to Rivers. "Especially seeing
you look as surprised by my appearance as I am…delighted by yours."
"Sorry for staring," Rivers stated. "It's just that Robert Ellington kept saying 'formidable
woman, formidable' like you were some scary thing. I expected you to be seven feet tall."
"Ha! The silly old fart," Maggie chuckled.
"So, what have you got, Rivers?" Sam asked, wondering if it was her imagination or whether Maggie
Tremaine was indeed flirting with the constable.
"First off, Ellington said he was sitting at that dinner between Dr Bridger and Ms Douglas. He
says Bridger and the Professor were talking about an archaeological dig in Peru, and some old Inca
called…hang on," Rivers pulled out his notebook and shrugged at Sam, "I'm trying to get the
hang of this processing deal, but this one I have to look up. Right, an Inca dude called
Teepackamoo."
Maggie nearly choked on her drink. "You needn't have bothered looking it up, Hercules. The dude's
name was Tupac Amaru."
"Is there any reason why this topic would've made the Professor claim he was ill so he could
leave the dinner early?" Sam asked Maggie.
"Not unless he was suddenly grief-stricken over the murder of the last Inca king by the Spaniards
over 400 years ago," Maggie said. "Lloyd was not a social man. He probably just wanted to go
home."
"Oh." Sam was getting depressed and starting to think Rigby was right about Marsden's death being
a 'domestic' affair. It was obviously time to get her intuition sent somewhere for a reality check.
"What about the Internet stuff?" she asked hopefully.
"Ah, now this is interesting," Rivers stated, placing a computer printout on the table. "The
first two are pretty wacky but I haven't found any connection except the dates. A guy was killed in
a hit-and-run snow mobile accident in Anchorage on July 6, last year; and a suicidal Scotsman leapt
off the roof next to the museum in Edinburgh on December 23. He lived, by the way.
"The rest of these are probably more relevant. An art broker died of smoke inhalation in a
gallery fire in New York on March 15, 1997; some Egyptian scrolls and Roman coins were stolen in a
burglary at an archaeological museum in London on October 10; and lastly, a van carrying South
American treasures was hijacked in Paris four days ago. That last one doesn't really fit though,
because the Exhibition had already left."