Read Online Dead Men's Hearts by Aaron Elkins - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Aaron Elkins
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into the ground?”
Jerry weighed this, then pointed his unlit pipe soberly at TJ. “Good point, Dr. B.”
Gideon went slowly over the pelvic bones with his hands and eyes, not really looking for, or expecting to find, anything notable. It had been half an hour since he had taken the remains one by one from the carton and laid them out, and the grinding, mind-numbing fatigue was creeping back. He had begun to wonder why he hadn’t gone to bed and left this for another time. Why, really, was he bothering at all? What difference—
He halted with his hands on the underside of the left hip bone. His eyes closed. His fingertips continued to explore.
“Progress?” asked TJ.
Gideon didn’t answer. He was alert again, and interested, his fingers playing over the bone as delicately, as sensitively, as a blind man’s on braille. He traced the rough, irregular surface of a large oval eminence at the base of the ischium, the lower rear section of the hip bone—the innominate to an anthropologist.
He opened his eyes, turned the bone over and examined it. He looked briefly at the right innominate and nodded to himself. “What do you know,” he murmured.
“Progress,” TJ decided.
Gideon picked up the fibula—the long thin bone that, together with the more robust tibia, forms the skeleton of the lower leg, and held it out at arm’s length, squinting. Then he placed the solitary finger bone in his palm, lightly ran his fingertips down it, and put it down. “Well, well.”
“Gideon,” TJ said, “are you planning to let us in on this anytime soon?”
He looked up, smiling. “I guess I can tell you one thing special about him, after all. I can tell you his occupation.”
“His
occupation!”
They both said it at once. Jerry’s match had stopped on the way to the pipe.
Gideon spread his hands in a flourish that encompassed all the bones on the table. “The gentleman we have before us,” he announced, “earned his living as a scribe.”
All right, he was showboating. Skeletal work was fascinating in and of itself, but there were things every now and then that also made it good, plain fun, and one of them was pulling magical rabbits out of the hat for the amazement of one and all. He rarely passed up the chance to do it. Julie had once told him it was the ham in him that made him such a successful teacher. He had chosen to take it as a compliment.
“A
scribe
?” TJ echoed. Her right hand caressed the humerus gently, almost reverently.
“Of course I can’t be sure,” Gideon said in a brief attack of modesty, “but that’s what it looks like.”
How, they wanted to know, could he tell something like that? Gideon told them, demonstrating as he went. The craggy, oval area on the bottom of each innominate bone was the ischial tuberosity. It was the site of attachment for several powerful ligaments and muscles. It was also, he explained, the part you sat on, and when you spent a great deal of time sitting, especially sitting on a hard surface like the ground, a chronic osteitis developed, resulting in an appearance even more craggy than the norm.
“And this is more craggy than the norm?” TJ was holding the bone in her hand, thoughtfully feeling the tuberosity.
“Much,” Gideon said. “So—”
“But isn’t this also called a squatting facet?” she asked. “And scribes didn’t squat, you know.”
“No, squatting facets are different. They’re on the femur or the tibia, and our man here doesn’t have any. But he does have something else.” He held up the fibula for them. “Can you see that it’s laterally bowed?”
Jerry had finally gotten his pipe going. He looked at the slender bone through wreaths of smoke. “Nope.”
“I can,” TJ said. “Just a slight curve.”
“Right. It comes from sitting cross-legged, which puts a tremendous amount of sideways pressure on the feet, which in turn—”
“And that’s the way scribes sat,” TJ said, beginning to see the picture. “On the
Jerry weighed this, then pointed his unlit pipe soberly at TJ. “Good point, Dr. B.”
Gideon went slowly over the pelvic bones with his hands and eyes, not really looking for, or expecting to find, anything notable. It had been half an hour since he had taken the remains one by one from the carton and laid them out, and the grinding, mind-numbing fatigue was creeping back. He had begun to wonder why he hadn’t gone to bed and left this for another time. Why, really, was he bothering at all? What difference—
He halted with his hands on the underside of the left hip bone. His eyes closed. His fingertips continued to explore.
“Progress?” asked TJ.
Gideon didn’t answer. He was alert again, and interested, his fingers playing over the bone as delicately, as sensitively, as a blind man’s on braille. He traced the rough, irregular surface of a large oval eminence at the base of the ischium, the lower rear section of the hip bone—the innominate to an anthropologist.
He opened his eyes, turned the bone over and examined it. He looked briefly at the right innominate and nodded to himself. “What do you know,” he murmured.
“Progress,” TJ decided.
Gideon picked up the fibula—the long thin bone that, together with the more robust tibia, forms the skeleton of the lower leg, and held it out at arm’s length, squinting. Then he placed the solitary finger bone in his palm, lightly ran his fingertips down it, and put it down. “Well, well.”
“Gideon,” TJ said, “are you planning to let us in on this anytime soon?”
He looked up, smiling. “I guess I can tell you one thing special about him, after all. I can tell you his occupation.”
“His
occupation!”
They both said it at once. Jerry’s match had stopped on the way to the pipe.
Gideon spread his hands in a flourish that encompassed all the bones on the table. “The gentleman we have before us,” he announced, “earned his living as a scribe.”
All right, he was showboating. Skeletal work was fascinating in and of itself, but there were things every now and then that also made it good, plain fun, and one of them was pulling magical rabbits out of the hat for the amazement of one and all. He rarely passed up the chance to do it. Julie had once told him it was the ham in him that made him such a successful teacher. He had chosen to take it as a compliment.
“A
scribe
?” TJ echoed. Her right hand caressed the humerus gently, almost reverently.
“Of course I can’t be sure,” Gideon said in a brief attack of modesty, “but that’s what it looks like.”
How, they wanted to know, could he tell something like that? Gideon told them, demonstrating as he went. The craggy, oval area on the bottom of each innominate bone was the ischial tuberosity. It was the site of attachment for several powerful ligaments and muscles. It was also, he explained, the part you sat on, and when you spent a great deal of time sitting, especially sitting on a hard surface like the ground, a chronic osteitis developed, resulting in an appearance even more craggy than the norm.
“And this is more craggy than the norm?” TJ was holding the bone in her hand, thoughtfully feeling the tuberosity.
“Much,” Gideon said. “So—”
“But isn’t this also called a squatting facet?” she asked. “And scribes didn’t squat, you know.”
“No, squatting facets are different. They’re on the femur or the tibia, and our man here doesn’t have any. But he does have something else.” He held up the fibula for them. “Can you see that it’s laterally bowed?”
Jerry had finally gotten his pipe going. He looked at the slender bone through wreaths of smoke. “Nope.”
“I can,” TJ said. “Just a slight curve.”
“Right. It comes from sitting cross-legged, which puts a tremendous amount of sideways pressure on the feet, which in turn—”
“And that’s the way scribes sat,” TJ said, beginning to see the picture. “On the
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