debate over whether or not the Neanderthals were entitled to a twig on the Homo branch of the hominid tree. They had parted warm friends, to Ray’s amazement, and had continued a sporadic correspondence consisting mostly of articles from scholarly journals overlaid with yellow highlighting and emphatic marginal notes.
"Yes," Gideon said. "I know Rochebonne." He had, in fact, planned on dropping by the manoir during the weekend. "I also know Guillaume du Rocher, and I have a hunch he’s not going to be too keen on a bunch of policemen wandering around his house and digging up his cellar."
"You were friends?" Joly asked with an odd inflection.
"Yes, in a way." He glanced at the inspector. "Did you say‘were’?"
"I’m sorry to tell you, Dr. Oliver …Guillaume du Rocher is dead."
"Oh, no," Gideon murmured. He was sorry but not surprised. With his war-ruined body, it was amazing that Guillaume had lived as long as he had. "Of what?" he asked.
"He was caught by the tide in Mont St. Michel Bay while collecting seashells. On Monday, I believe; the day the conference started. There was a report filed."
Gideon nodded, smiling faintly. Well, there was a sort of rightness in that. Certainly Guillaume would have preferred it that way, out there on the ocean floor, rather than having his wrecked kidneys or liver give out while he was in a hospital bed buried in tubes. It was too bad, though; Gideon had been looking forward to re-opening the debate.
They turned through the open gate of iron grillwork set between two tall stone gateposts with carved spheres on top, the only opening in a low wall of lichen-stained granite blocks. To the left, what had been a small kitchen garden was being substantially enlarged. Workmen were setting in the walls of a raised bed, and piles of lumber and black earth littered the ground.
Otherwise, everything was the same. The manoir itself was set at the back of some 200 feet of pea-graveled courtyard, a gray stone building as starkly beautiful as he remembered, with five slender stone chimneys, and a complex jumble of smaller wings branching off behind.
Much of the front was covered by ivy—a solid, rippling mass of green when he’d been here in the summer, but now just beginning to break out into rust-colored new leaves, so that the thick, gnarled, old vines could be seen clinging to the stone blocks. The only signs of ostentation were the early Baroque decorations carved around the window casements, all curlicues and rosettes, looking sheepish and subdued in the otherwise classical façade. An ancient, eroded stone coat of arms, possibly older than the building, had been fitted into the wall above the arched doorway.
With a crunch of tires on gravel, Joly pulled the car to a halt directly in front of the door. John looked up at the coat of arms as he got out.
"A
poodle
?" he said after a moment.
"A lion, I think," Gideon said. Not that it didn’t look like a poodle.
"A lion," Joly confirmed, "wearing the collar of the Order of St. Michael. A family emblem, I suppose. They hadn’t seen many real lions in those days."
"I can see that," John said.
The bell-pull was answered by a large woman in a vast brown housedress, who opened the thick door six inches and peered uncongenially at them.
"
Bonjour,
Beatrice," Gideon said.
She craned her head forward to see him better. "Ah," she said, her eyes brightening, "the gentleman with the good appetite!"
Gideon laughed. "It’s nice to see you."
"OPJ, madame," Joly said sternly, showing her his identification. "May we come in, please?"
As soon as they walked through the vestibule and into the salon, a small man with glowing pink cheeks and a scant moustache hurried to them. "I’m the one who called the police, Inspector," he said with pride. "My name is René du Rocher." He held out his hand and Joly shook it, again with a slight, stiff-backed bow.
Du Rocher gestured around the room, in which several people sat in clusters. "These are
"Yes," Gideon said. "I know Rochebonne." He had, in fact, planned on dropping by the manoir during the weekend. "I also know Guillaume du Rocher, and I have a hunch he’s not going to be too keen on a bunch of policemen wandering around his house and digging up his cellar."
"You were friends?" Joly asked with an odd inflection.
"Yes, in a way." He glanced at the inspector. "Did you say‘were’?"
"I’m sorry to tell you, Dr. Oliver …Guillaume du Rocher is dead."
"Oh, no," Gideon murmured. He was sorry but not surprised. With his war-ruined body, it was amazing that Guillaume had lived as long as he had. "Of what?" he asked.
"He was caught by the tide in Mont St. Michel Bay while collecting seashells. On Monday, I believe; the day the conference started. There was a report filed."
Gideon nodded, smiling faintly. Well, there was a sort of rightness in that. Certainly Guillaume would have preferred it that way, out there on the ocean floor, rather than having his wrecked kidneys or liver give out while he was in a hospital bed buried in tubes. It was too bad, though; Gideon had been looking forward to re-opening the debate.
They turned through the open gate of iron grillwork set between two tall stone gateposts with carved spheres on top, the only opening in a low wall of lichen-stained granite blocks. To the left, what had been a small kitchen garden was being substantially enlarged. Workmen were setting in the walls of a raised bed, and piles of lumber and black earth littered the ground.
Otherwise, everything was the same. The manoir itself was set at the back of some 200 feet of pea-graveled courtyard, a gray stone building as starkly beautiful as he remembered, with five slender stone chimneys, and a complex jumble of smaller wings branching off behind.
Much of the front was covered by ivy—a solid, rippling mass of green when he’d been here in the summer, but now just beginning to break out into rust-colored new leaves, so that the thick, gnarled, old vines could be seen clinging to the stone blocks. The only signs of ostentation were the early Baroque decorations carved around the window casements, all curlicues and rosettes, looking sheepish and subdued in the otherwise classical façade. An ancient, eroded stone coat of arms, possibly older than the building, had been fitted into the wall above the arched doorway.
With a crunch of tires on gravel, Joly pulled the car to a halt directly in front of the door. John looked up at the coat of arms as he got out.
"A
poodle
?" he said after a moment.
"A lion, I think," Gideon said. Not that it didn’t look like a poodle.
"A lion," Joly confirmed, "wearing the collar of the Order of St. Michael. A family emblem, I suppose. They hadn’t seen many real lions in those days."
"I can see that," John said.
The bell-pull was answered by a large woman in a vast brown housedress, who opened the thick door six inches and peered uncongenially at them.
"
Bonjour,
Beatrice," Gideon said.
She craned her head forward to see him better. "Ah," she said, her eyes brightening, "the gentleman with the good appetite!"
Gideon laughed. "It’s nice to see you."
"OPJ, madame," Joly said sternly, showing her his identification. "May we come in, please?"
As soon as they walked through the vestibule and into the salon, a small man with glowing pink cheeks and a scant moustache hurried to them. "I’m the one who called the police, Inspector," he said with pride. "My name is René du Rocher." He held out his hand and Joly shook it, again with a slight, stiff-backed bow.
Du Rocher gestured around the room, in which several people sat in clusters. "These are
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