Golden Relic. Lindy Cameron

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      ‘But you said you had breakfast with him ‘as usual’,’ Rivers quoted from his notes.

      Sam investigated the half-open drawer. It was full of chocolate bars and empty wrappers, and a box of half-eaten donuts and cakes; a sugar-junkie’s variety of jam-filled, chocolate-topped or smothered in icing sugar or cream.

      ‘Lloyd and I had been eating breakfast in the same establishment for 15 years. Earlier this year, when a busload of tourists invaded the place, we had to sit at the same table and discovered we share a passion for the horses. We’ve been breakfasting together ever since.’

      ‘It took you 15 years to share a table?’ Sam attacked the pile in front of her, finding newspapers, museum publications, and manilla folders filled with notes and printouts about the collection Marsden was responsible for relocating.

      ‘That was Lloyd’s choice. He was a private, thoughtful man not given to socialising.’

      ‘But you were sharing an office as well,’ Rivers commented.

      ‘Only for the last two months. I’ve been working for this institution on and off, mostly on, for nigh on forty years. Lloyd has been here, but mostly off doing field work or fulfilling his teaching commitments at Melbourne University, for the past thirty. A long time yes, but our disciplines rarely connected. I know a great deal about his work and reputation but little about his personal life.’

      Sam opened the long, deep drawer in the middle of the desk. ‘Whoa!’ she exclaimed.

      ‘What is it?’ Rivers stepped forward eagerly.

      ‘Ah,’ Ellington said. ‘Lloyd’s only other passion outside of his work. That I know of.’

      ‘A man after my own heart,’ Sam declared. The drawer was full of cryptic crosswords, all cut from newspapers and in various stages of completion. Sharing the space was a dictionary and a well- thumbed thesaurus.

      As she shut the drawer, Sam noticed something protruding from under the large blotter that protected the surface of the desk from the paraphernalia and food scraps on top of it. Clearing everything back she lifted the blotter and set it down on the floor.

      ‘Make a list, please Rivers. Three Mars Bar wrappers; an airline ticket dated for this Saturday, in Marsden’s name – destination Lima, Peru; a dry cleaning bill – with pick-up for tomorrow; a prescription for malaria tablets – already filled; a catalogue for The Rites of Life and Death exhibition; and three betting slips from Sandown last Friday.’

      Sam opened the full-colour catalogue which featured pictures of artefacts and photographs of “real-life” funerary and fertility rituals. On the inside cover, next to an article about the purpose of the exhibition, was a mugshot of a broodingly handsome man, of the Heathcliff variety. The caption read: Dr Marcus Bridger. MA, PhD, FSA.

      Sam turned several pages of sponsors’ ads, until the catalogue settled open, through previous use, on the captioned photos of the other exhibition team members and the show’s worldwide itinerary. The fold was full of icing sugar, as if Marsden had eaten his lunch over it, so it was reasonable to assume that it had been he who used a marker pen to highlight some of the overseas tour dates.

      Sam replaced the blotter on the desk and nodded to Rivers. ‘Better get forensics in to check any prints found at the crime scene against any that shouldn’t be here.’

      Sam returned her attention to Ellington who had been patiently sitting at his desk. ‘Do you know of anyone who knew Marsden well?’

      ‘Pavel Mercier,’ he replied instantly. ‘And Maggie of course. They were the only people he spoke of with any kind of fondness or familiarity. They worked together over the years.’

      ‘And who are they?’

      Ellington scuttled over to the bookshelves next to Marsden’s desk, drawing Sam’s attention to two shelves of hard and soft cover publications, the spines of which wore the names Professor Lloyd Marsden, Dr Pavel Mercier and Dr Maggie Tremaine, either independently or as co-authors in various combinations. The titles ranged from the readily understandable – such as Time Stands Still: An Exploration of Archaeology; The New Technologies of History; Inca Roads to Power; Aztec Glory, Aztec Blood; and Adrift in a Sea of Sand: The Ruins of Tanis; – to the more esoteric: An Interlude in Hatshepsut’s Kitchen; Sipán and Chimú: Benefactors of Tahuantinsuyu?; and Anthropomorphic Entities and the Andean Supernatural Realm.

      ‘That’s quite a body of work. Are they on staff here or do you know how to contact them?’

      ‘Well, you can’t contact Pavel at all; he died in Peru last year. That’s him with Lloyd in the big picture behind you. It was taken a good 20 years ago though, so you wouldn’t recognise him now even if he wasn’t dead.’

      Sam swivelled her chair to take a look at the gallery of framed photographs. ‘What about Dr Tremaine?’

      ‘Ah Maggie,’ he sighed heavily. ‘Formidable woman. Formidable. Endearing too, but formidable. And I mean that in the sense that she inspires admiration while being, quite often, well, difficult to deal with.’

      ‘And she is where?’ Sam prompted.

      ‘Sydney University. She’s actually on staff here at the Museum, but took a 12-month post in Sydney to teach archaeology while whats-his-name is on leave.’ Ellington headed back to his desk but stopped abruptly, spun around and said, ‘No, actually I tell a lie. She’s in Paris. Yes, that’s right. She went to a conference in Paris, from Sydney.’

      ‘Is this the same Maggie who was involved in the ‘Inca trinket fiasco’?’ Sam asked, recalling Anton’s conversation with Prescott.

      ‘The very same. So you’ve heard about that then.’

      ‘Not really,’ Sam replied. And I don’t need to, she thought. ‘One of the pictures seems to be missing from the wall here.’ She pointed out the empty hook.

      ‘So it is,’ Ellington agreed. ‘That’s odd. No, there it is on top of the cabinet beside you.’

      Sam picked up what turned out to be an empty frame, labelled ‘Manco City 1962’.

      ‘That’s odd,’ Ellington said again.

      ‘I’ve got one last question, Robert, and then we’ll let you get back to work. Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to hurt Professor Marsden?’

      ‘You mean did he have any enemies? Strong word isn’t it? Lloyd had the tendency to rub people the wrong way. And he did a lot of rubbing, and pot-stirring, around here because he didn’t exactly agree with the Museum’s vision for the future; just ask Prescott. But enemies? No, not that I’m aware of. Certainly not anyone who’d want to stab him to death.’

      ‘Stab him?’ Sam echoed. ‘He wasn’t stabbed Robert.’

      ‘Oh. Shot?’ When Sam shook her head but wasn’t forthcoming with the facts, Ellington shrugged. ‘On the other hand, I’m wondering if Lloyd had some kind of premonition.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Last Friday, over breakfast, we were talking about families or at least I was; Lloyd has no living relatives. Anyway quite СКАЧАТЬ