The Shadowy Horses

"Yes, yes, of course. I'll give it a read after lunch. You do realize," he said, peering over his spectacles at Peter, "that your finding of the fortress might create a difficulty for you, even with your permits. The site might be scheduled."

He meant that Rosehill might be designated an ancient monument, and that might in turn stop our dig cold. Preservation of a site was, after all, the prime concern of archaeology, and digging, by its nature, was destructive. We kept notes, of course, and scrupulously published what we found, but still, a site once excavated could not be restored. Schliemann, in his search for Troy, had shattered several layers of the ancient town above.

So now there were rules, to protect important monuments—like Roman fortresses—from being unnecessarily disturbed.

"Because it's not only me that you need to impress," Dr. Connelly explained. "You'll want to get Historic Scotland on your side as well, and the regional archaeologist over at Newtown St. Boswells. And unless the site is being threatened by development or road-building, they might well not approve of your digging."

Peter refused to blink. "Did I mention," he said, in his elegant voice, "that I'm thinking of having a swimming pool built? In the field, as it happens."

It was his way of saying that, if he couldn't dig unless the site was in imminent danger of being damaged, he was willing to invent an urgent threat.

Dr. Connelly shook his head, and sighed. "You can't always have things your own way, you know."

But he did read the report. We gave him Peter's sitting room, for privacy, while the rest of us waited across the hall. It was, I think, the most unnerving hour I'd spent since my first interview at the British Museum. Fabia paced ceaselessly, like something in a cage, while Adrian straightened picture frames and rearranged the objects on the mantelpiece. David, slightly more relaxed, put Chopin's Etudes on the hi-fi, and leaned back, eyes closed, to listen. And Peter simply waited patiently, his hand quite still upon the black cat stretched across his knees.

At length the door to our sitting room creaked open, and Connelly's head came around it. His expression, I thought, was preoccupied—carefully bland. "Right," he said. "I'd like to see the site now, if I may. Just Miss Grey and myself," he added, as everyone made to rise, "if that's all right."

Surprised, I looked at Peter, and he nodded.

This must be how an Olympic torch-bearer feels, I thought uncomfortably, as I led Dr. Connelly up the grassy slope to the Principia. I tried hard not to stumble over any of my explanations, but it was difficult to keep my nervousness from showing, and when we finally stepped outside again and a figure leapt from the building's shadow, I nearly jumped a mile.

"Sod it! Sorry," I apologized, remembering too late to mind my language. "It's only Kip, our ... well, not our collie, exactly. He belongs to the cottage, down the bottom of the drive."

"Fine fellow," Connelly praised the dog, giving the cocked ears a friendly scratch before turning to me with an expectant expression. "Now, shall we have a look at your trial trench?"

Kip's presence made me braver, less self-conscious. After twenty minutes of touring the field, I frowned and looked at my companion. "Why did you want me?"

"I'm sorry?"

"To show you around. Why me, specifically?"

"Ah." His mouth curved into a smile that was not unpleasant. "Because I reasoned you were the only person likely to be truthful, my dear."

"But why?"

"Well, Peter has a rather deep investment here, now doesn't he? His granddaughter, I'd imagine, doesn't want to see him disappointed. That surveyor—Sutton-Clarke—his kind say anything to keep their jobs secure. No point killing the goose that lays the golden eggs. And young Fortune," he concluded, “would swear black was white, if Peter asked him to. Which left only you."

"Oh."

"Besides," he said, confidingly, "I know old Lazenby, and he speaks very highly of the work you did on his Suffolk excavations. I gather that he wants to take you out to Alexandria."

"So I'm told." Only I didn't want to think of Alexandria, or Lazenby, or the decision I would have to make before the summer's end. I kicked over a stick in the grass and threw it out for Kip to chase.

Dr. Connelly stopped walking. "There are people," he said slowly, "who'd call Peter Quinnell mad. And you must admit he acts the madman, sometimes. I have been told he sits out in this field at night, and talks to ghosts."

I looked up sharply, trying to read his inscrutable face. "Who told you that?"

"It's true, then?"

"No, it's not. I've never known Peter to come out here after dark," I answered truthfully. "You must be misinformed."

Connelly accepted this with a philosophical nod. "So tell me, Miss Grey, in your professional opinion, is there anything behind all this Ninth Legion nonsense?" His eyes peered at me through the spectacles like hard, glittering stones. "Do you believe—honestly believe—that we are standing, right this moment, on something more than a vex-illation fortress?"

They seemed too bright, those eyes. Too penetrating. I looked away.

Kip had stopped chasing the stick and was loping happily up the hill, tail wagging a welcome to the empty air. He gave a small woof and stopped suddenly, tipping his head up and wagging more violently, as though someone were bending down to stroke him.