Chapter 24
Saffron’s day had begun with a to-do list consisting of sketching vessels and tracking down the perpetually absent Clark. By noon, her list of tasks had quite transformed.
Identify suspects
Discover motives
Establish opportunities
Discover Martin’s movements
Learn cause of death, specific toxin if possible
She’d struck “Establish opportunities” from the list as soon as she wrote it because, with so much coming and going during mealtimes at the hotel and on-site, she figured more than fifty people would have had the chance to slip Martin something in his food or drink.
But that was if Martin had, in fact, been poisoned.
And from the seemingly endless questions the Turkish inspector had asked her about herself, Martin, the dig, and the other crew members, it certainly was plain that was the official conclusion. If only she knew why.
Considering Martin had been dead three days and Inspector Polat came today to interview the crew, she surmised the suspicion of murder was a recent development, and therefore the order for an autopsy had been, as well.
The information it would provide would be essential in discovering what was the cause of death and whether or not a toxin had caused it, but she had little hope she’d get lucky as she had in the past and see the autopsy report.
It was likely to be written in Turkish, anyway.
So, Saffron determined as she shut her notebook on her list and got to her feet, she would have to discover the truth of what had happened to Martin using her wits, rather than relying on science.
There was no way she’d be leaving it to Inspector Polat; he’d all but told her and Dr. Henry that she was a suspect.
She huffed at the idea as she carefully rose from the sunbaked pile of rocks she’d perched on to write down her thoughts. As if she’d be so stupid as to use poison to kill someone!
She made her slow way the far end of the pit, where the majority of the assistants had been assigned to examine dirt.
There were three assistants there at present, with their necks red and white shirts clinging to bent backs over the large, wood-framed sieves.
Other than herself, the assistants were the people Martin had spent the most time with.
If they had any insights into Martin’s death, being friendly was her best chance of hearing them.
“Any luck?” Saffron asked as she approached.
All three looked up. The spotty-faced young man who’d asked after Alexander’s potential assistant position rubbed an arm over his face to blot the sweat before saying, “Hello there, Miss Everleigh.”
“No luck at all,” grumbled the taller of his companions, a portly fellow she’d seen Clark bossing around.
“Not every bucketful of dirt can be full of treasures,” she said with a smile.
“Not everyone can have Callahan’s luck,” grumbled the third man, whose arms were dusty with fawn-colored earth.
The spotty man sighed wistfully. “Or Wakefield’s.”
“Or Giltrap’s.”
The quickness with which the young men spat out names made Saffron bite back a smile. They certainly held a bit of resentment that they were stuck sieving dirt while their superiors were discovering artifacts.
The dirt-covered assistant counted off on his equally caked fingers. “Or Clark’s, or Guy-Dawkins, or Neill, or—”
“Neill?” Saffron repeated. “You mean Martin Neill found something?”
She narrowed her eyes on the three men, who suddenly looked anywhere but at her. They didn’t look chagrined, but almost … guilty.
“Come now,” she said gently, “I know it’s a dreadful thing to have happened.
But I haven’t heard anything about him finding an artifact.
” At least, not any that were not hulking stones with ancient graffiti.
“You know Martin Neill was the good sort. If he found something, he ought to get credit for it. Especially now …” She let out a hot, hollow breath full of entirely real emotion.
“It would be a comfort, I think, for his family to know he’d left a bit of a legacy behind.
I know Mr. Ashton would like to carry such a message back to them.
” She resolved to tell Alexander he would be doing exactly that the next time she saw him. “What did Mr. Neill find? When?”
The dusty assistant mashed his lips together and went back to his sieving, looking at once upset by her words and disinclined to respond. But the other two straightened all the way up and brushed off their hands.
“When Ashton gave him a break from Biology, er, when you were injured, Neill was assigned to the sieves. He found a bit of pottery,” the larger assistant said, voice low. “Not anything so exciting as the coins, or the necklace—”
“But it was interesting,” the spotty one interrupted. “Ceramic, with intact patterns. Mr. Clark knew right away it came from Italy.”
“Neill showed it to Mr. Clark?” Saffron asked.
“Yes, he did. Neill worried he’d be laughed at if he made a big to-do about something that might have been a contemporary piece mixed in with the dirt, you know.”
“It did look rather modern,” put in the larger one. “White with a red pattern.”
The spotty one was nodding right along. “So, he asked Mr. Clark to look at it, and, well—”
“Mr. Clark said he didn’t want the fellows ribbing Neill if it turned out to be nothing special,” finished the larger one. “He suggested he could get it checked out first.”
The fellow still sieving muttered, “Not much of a suggestion.”
“I see,” Saffron said, and she truly did, for she could perfectly imagine the conversation between Martin Neill and Clark.
Martin, na?ve and hopeful, and Clark, impressive and intimidating with his knowledge and experience.
How had Martin felt when he saw his find listed under Clark’s name on the artifact table?
She cleared her throat. “As I said, Mr. Ashton planned to send a letter to Neill’s family, so I’m hunting up some stories he might share, to let them know that his last few weeks of life were at least enjoyable before he fell ill.
I won’t make trouble for Mr. Clark about the ceramic fragment, but what else do you know Mr. Neill got up to?
” She sent them a smile she hoped came off as knowing, and perhaps inviting.
“Did you lot get up to any trouble in the city?”
“Oh, plenty,” the spotty one said, laughing nervously. The other assistant elbowed him. He cleared his throat. “That is to say, we did, not Neill. He stayed behind to play at Johnson’s table. Didn’t want to offend anyone by not attending.”
That meant she’d need to talk to the poker-playing fellows, and she did not look forward to it. “Thank you all so much for your thoughts. I’ll be sure to ask Mr. Ashton to pass on to Martin Neill’s family that he was well thought of among the crew.”
The spotty one snatched his hat off his head, exposing blond hair matted with sweat.
“He was, Miss Everleigh. I think it’s just awful what’s happened to Neill.
And the crew. Your team, particularly. It’s got to be hard, going without Neill’s help.
I just hope you know that if Mr. Ashton needs another hand, I’m here and ready. ”
The warmth his candor had kindled in her heart sputtered out. “Right,” she said, withholding a sigh. “I’ll be sure to let him know.”
She walked slowly back to the tent in which she ought to be working, eyes wandering over the pit as she went.
She was, admittedly, looking for Clark. Ought she go down into the pit and see if she could force him into work?
She had a feeling that if she did find him now, she might not be able to restrain herself from giving him a piece of her mind.
Hearing the assistants’ account of Clark claiming Martin’s find and summarizing for Inspector Polat all that Clark had done to her—and through her, Martin—only served to remind her just how dreadful Clark had been.
One of the workers she was more familiar with—if one could claim familiarity with a man one had subtly threatened by suggesting he’d be sacked if he revealed one’s questionable actions—was just climbing up out of the pit as she passed, and he shot her a sideways glance that suggested the subtle threats were at the top of his mind, too.
Guilt prickled at her, and on its heels came an idea. She spun on her heel and spotted Banks leaving the mess tent.
“Mr. Banks,” Saffron called out, walking toward him.
He gave her a gallant nod that put to mind a courtly bow. “Miss Everleigh.”
“I wonder if you could answer a question for me.”
“Certainly, if I can.” He dug into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped sweat from his face.
“About your discovery,” she said carefully. “I wondered if you recalled the names of the local workers who assisted you with the stone’s excavation.”
“I do.” His equally cautious tone suggested he was aware this was more than a question of passing interest asked in hearing range of the crew walking all around. “Do you need those names?”
“I might,” she said slowly. “It occurred to me there might be some ill feeling between one or all of those men and Martin Neill, considering the, er, unusual way the stone was discovered.”
Banks looked taken aback. “Good Lord.” He darted a glance over his shoulder before confiding, “Considering one of those men was recently dismissed from the dig, I think you may be right, Miss Everleigh.”