Chapter 22
“Of course we have to go back to the agora tomorrow.” Knuckles braced on the table, Dr. Henry stared around, daring the others to disagree. “It’s not an option to let progress stagnate simply because—”
“One of your crew died?” Mrs. Henry asked dryly.
“This is the field,” Dr. Henry said, rounding on her. “Bad things happen.”
Alexander’s head throbbed as the team leaders turned to each other to argue Henry’s point. They’d been in the dining room for the last twenty minutes, sequestered together after the Henrys and the Demirels had spoken with the doctor who’d been called to examine Martin Neill. Or rather, his body.
Alexander glanced at Saffron, who’d been motionless at his side for the length of the conversation.
She hadn’t said a word as Mrs. Henry explained to everyone the circumstances of Martin’s death, fending off questions she couldn’t answer as to how his condition deteriorated when they’d thought he was on the mend.
Mr. Demirel hadn’t been able to add anything to the tale, nor had his wife, since she was currently in their room, unwell after the shock of finding Neill’s corpse.
Saffron’s eyes were vacant as she stared across the table at no one in particular. Her fingers were turning white in her lap where they clutched each other. He covered them with one of his own, and she jumped slightly.
I should have helped him, her sad eyes said when they found his. He hoped his gentle squeeze of her hands told her it hadn’t been her responsibility. How could she have predicted he would perish just hours after they’d spoken?
“Ashton!”
Alexander knew what he was being asked. “I say we wait at least a day,” he said, looking back at Dr. Henry and the rest of the waiting table.
“We ought to wait to ensure no one else becomes ill, and for the doctor to determine how, exactly, Neill died.” There were more mutterings from the others, but he ignored them and drew Saffron out of her seat as he rose. “Excuse us.”
Alexander stepped into Saffron’s room when they reached it. He wrapped her in a hug the moment the door was shut. She shook against him, her sobs muffled by his chest.
He had no words of comfort or encouragement.
Neill’s death was too unexpected for that.
The feeling was the same as the shock of noticing one’s brother-in-arms was suddenly missing from the line, only to discover them empty-eyed, slumped against the muddy wall.
Such suddenness was violent in the way it tore at the mind as it tried to take hold of the new reality.
And work his mind did, shuffling and reshuffling the events of the last few days, his worries, his anger, trying to make sense of it even though he knew he wouldn’t be able to for some time.
He didn’t try to stop it, though, and held Saffron all the tighter for it, for at least he knew she was safe and well even as her heart broke for Martin Neill.
Arrangements were made for Martin Neill’s body and a perfunctory memorial was held.
Saffron was still too much in shock to pay much attention to either, other than appreciating someone had saw fit to honor Martin’s Catholic faith with a priest from a local Catholic order.
In fact, it was not until two days had passed and her ankle was well enough she could join the others at the agora that she seemed to wake from a sort of grief-induced stupor.
Once she realized it, it reminded her most uncomfortably of what had happened to her mother when her father had been killed in the war.
Violet had been all but comatose for weeks, and Saffron didn’t like to think she might harbor the same tendency to step back from reality when it became too painful.
She was determined to face the day, and that meant getting back to work. She went down to breakfast, slowly, so as not to aggravate her ankle, gathered her food, then went to the table where Alexander sat with Banks, Kent, and Dunmore.
“Good morning,” she said as she sat.
The others returned her greeting, save for Dunmore, who gave her a tight-lipped nod but did not meet her eyes. In fact, he stood and excused himself practically the moment Saffron picked up her fork and knife. He went to another table rather than leaving the room, however.
Alexander frowned after him, but soon was speaking to Banks about his progress on the graffiti, and Saffron found their discussion quite comforting. She liked to think Martin would have been glad that the discovery they’d inadvertently made was being researched with such care and enthusiasm.
And just like that, tears clouded her vision. She bit her lip, hard, trying to clear them before anyone noticed she’d become a watering pot at the breakfast table.
The swatch of white that appeared in her vision, however, meant Alexander, at least, had noticed. She patted her eyes as surreptitiously as she could.
Dr. Henry came into the room with Mr. Hayrettin and another Turkish gentleman at his side, looking furious.
“Listen up,” Dr. Henry said, and the room fell quiet. “This is Mr. Polat.” He jerked a thumb at the Turk wearing something reminiscent of a military or police uniform. “He’s going to be speaking to some of you today as you go about your work. Answer his questions, or you’ll be answering to me.”
Mr. Hayrettin scowled and looked like he wanted to speak, but Dr. Henry called, “Now, move out!”
People streamed into the entry and outside to the motorcars. Saffron picked up her hat and satchel, which Alexander commandeered without a word, and they loaded into one of the motorcars.
Fluffy white clouds brushed the blue of the early morning sky.
The breeze from the open windows was almost sharp on her skin, bringing her to further wakefulness and soothing her swollen eyes.
It was slightly cooler, a welcome change that she hoped meant it would be a little more bearable at the agora come midday.
Being outside, in fresh air and among the crew, was pleasant.
Pleasant was perhaps too strong a word. She wouldn’t be able to look at any corner of the agora without remembering Martin scurrying after her.
At least in her mind, he’d joined the centuries’ worth of ghosts of long ago, forever tied to that place.
She’d do her best to remember him fondly, as an enthusiastic young scholar, and not the fear-riddled boy, pale and sweating in a dark room.
“Ashton, come over here,” Dr. Henry called.
Alexander turned, swinging around the crate he’d been carrying, and squinted over at where Dr. Henry stood at the mouth of one of the smaller tents used for storage.
He was with the two Turks he’d been with at the hotel earlier that morning, Mr. Hayrettin and the other fellow.
None looked at ease, least of all Dr. Henry, whose hands were in fists at his side.
Alexander set the crate down where he was; it was just packing materials and would keep just fine in the sun. He ducked into the tent, brushing his hands on his trousers.
Dr. Henry nodded at the uniformed Turkish man. “This is Polat.”
“Inspector Okan Polat,” the man said, stepping forward to offer Alexander a very firm handshake.
His uniform was dark, military green with a belted jacket and tall, polished boots.
His skin was bronze, and his precisely trimmed mustache and short hair were sprinkled with gray.
Sharp eyes of light green watched Alexander carefully.
“Inspector,” he said politely. He glanced at Dr. Henry, who was stony-faced.
Alexander suspected he was angry Hayrettin had called in the police to deal with the missing artifacts.
They hadn’t turned up, and now that more valuables had been discovered, it was essential they resolved the thefts before the new pieces went missing, too.
Polat gestured for Alexander to sit at the little table nestled among the stacks of crates, and the other two men left the tent.
“Mr. Ashton,” the Turkish inspector began, lacing his fingers on the top of the table, “tell me your responsibilities. Why is it you are here?”
Finding his choice of words curious, Alexander answered, “I lead the team of biologists here at the dig.”
“You are a leader?” Polat asked. “Carrying boxes is leading?”
Surprised, Alexander replied, “I carry boxes of equipment when necessary.”
Polat’s brows lifted as if doubtful. He moved on to a few more questions about his responsibilities, then inquired about Alexander’s movements of the last week, down to the hour, in some cases.
After twenty minutes, Alexander was getting impatient.
Inspector Polat had yet to ask about the missing coins or the bracelet.
“Very good,” Polat said at the end of Alexander’s recollection of his time at the dig site the day Clark had discovered the necklace. “And now tell me about your team.”
He described each one, and when he came to Martin Neill, he found it hard to continue. “And then there was our assistant, Martin Neill.” He could see Neill’s face, twisted with pain. “He died a few days ago.”
“I have been told,” Polat said without sympathy. “Tell me about him.”
“He was twenty-one years old and was due to complete his degree in the spring. He was deciding on the specific field he wished to pursue a graduate degree in. I had him working mostly with Miss Everleigh.”
“This is the woman you will marry,” the inspector interrupted.
“Yes, my fiancée,” Alexander said. “They worked on the samples taken from one of the storerooms.”
“They worked closely?”
If he’d spoken to many of the crew, Alexander had no doubt they’d already seen fit to mention the rumor going around about Saffron and Neill.
He’d been overhearing snippets of conversation about it all day, some intentionally spoken within his hearing, no doubt to provoke a reaction.
With his emotions riding high, it was a task to keep himself composed.
“I assigned Neill to help Miss Everleigh.”
Polat hummed, writing something in the little notebook in which he’d recorded Alexander’s recollections. “Tell me about his death.”
Taken aback again by the direct phrasing, Alexander did, including visiting Neill in his room.
Polat wrote a few notes, and when Alexander fell silent, steepled his hands on the tabletop. Those green eyes bore into his for a long moment before he asked, “And what do you make of his sudden death, Mr. Ashton?”
“It’s a tragedy,” he answered. “Young men dying before their time always is, especially when it could have likely been prevented.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m a bacteriologist. I know how easily illness-causing bacteria can be managed. Martin Neill might have been alive today if he’d avoided whatever food or drink—”
“Martin Neill died of cardiovascular failure,” Polat interrupted, pronouncing the words carefully.
“His kidneys, liver, lungs, and heart were damaged.” He leaned back, eyes riveted on Alexander’s face like he was trying to see into his mind.
“I am no doctor, but that does not sound like a man who ate something which made him ill.”
Alexander stared at him. This police officer thought Neill had been poisoned.
And from the way the inspector was studying him, Alexander had the chilling suspicion that Inspector Polat thought he knew something about it.