I sent him an icy look, unsympathetic. "Can you even spell the word 'ethics'?"
"I don't know why you're so angry about it."
"I'm not angry. I'm bloody furious. You're supposed to be a professional, for God's sake. Professionals don't fake their data."
"They might if they worked for Quinnell. Saves effort, really, because he'll dig the field up anyway, no matter what the tests show. Quinnell doesn't need me, or my surveys, to tell him where to dig. He'll use his little psychic friend for that."
"I don't believe this." I rubbed my forehead with a heavy hand. "I really don't believe you dragged me all the way up here from London, for nothing. Of all the rotten—"
"Who says it was for nothing?"
I glanced up, irritated. "Oh, come on, Adrian! Roman soldiers walking on the hills?"
"I'll admit it's a bit weird to dig a field up just because some kid watched Ben-Hur one time too many, but—"
"Did anyone take aerial photographs?"
"Yes."
"And did you see a marching camp?"
"No, but that field is in permanent pasture, and you know as well as I do that pasture hides quite a lot. It can take years of photographing—different seasons, different times of day— and even then you might not see a thing. Doesn't mean that nothing's there."
"Look me in the eye," I challenged him, "and tell me you honestly believe there's a Roman camp at Rosehill."
In a way, it was a trick question. I knew Adrian well enough to know that if he looked me in the eye at all, he was lying.
Instead he surprised me by looking away, squinting thoughtfully into the shadowy tangle of leaning, leafless trees. "I believe," he said, "that Quinnell believes it. And for the amount he's paying me, I'm prepared to play along."
"Of course, I should have known. It all comes down to money, doesn't it?" I studied him. "Do you know, I'm almost tempted to take the job, if only to protect Peter Quinnell from the lot of you."
Adrian smiled at my disapproving expression. "Is that why poor old Fortune wasted no time disappearing, when I met you in the drive? Did you tear a strip off him, as well?"
"I don't know the man well enough to tear a strip off him. But he's well aware of what I think." He hadn't kept me long at Rose Cottage, not after I'd seen the picture of the Roman legionary. Jeannie McMorran had offered us tea and biscuits, but he'd merely flashed his handsome smile and made some excuse about work to be done and guided me out of the warm little house, out into the crisp morning air that smelled cleanly of fresh earth and flowers and sunshine.
He had known, of course, that I'd be disappointed. Known it all along, and still he'd taken me to meet Robbie, had let me hear the whole fantastic tale. And as we'd trudged back up the curving drive, he'd offered no apology. "So now you ken as much as I do," he'd told me, and his eyes had held an understanding. "It's your choice, to stay or to go, but I will tell you one thing: Quinnell's set his heart on your staying."
He'd said that last bit almost... well, almost as if it went against his better judgment, and I'd had the curious impression that David Fortune would be happier if I didn't stay. But before I'd fully registered the thought, a sleek red sports car had roared up the drive—Adrian's car—and with a final, unreadable glance, the big dark Scotsman had turned to climb the final hundred yards or so to the low-slung stables on the ridge, where that perfectly appointed office waited patiently for my answer.
"Damn, damn, damn." I spoke the words aloud now with a vehemence that brought Adrian's head around. "It's all your fault," I told him, and because he deserved it I shoved his arm, for emphasis.
He bounced back like a punching-ball, unperturbed. "What is?"
"I like him."
"Who, Fortune?" The idea seemed to shock him. “Quinnell. I like him, Adrian, and I don't want to see him disappointed."
"So take the job, then, like a good girl."
"Yes, but don't you see? If I do that, if I just go along with his fantasy like the rest of you are doing, then I'll have to actually stand by and watch him digging trenches, finding nothing. I don't know which is worse."
Adrian shrugged. "One of them pays better."
"Oh, damn the pay," I started to say, but my words were drowned by an urgent squeal of tires on the road, followed by the unmistakable thud and crunch of metal slamming into metal and the sound of splintered glass. In the second of silence that trailed the crash, something began to crack and tear like a tree branch ripped free in a storm, and a softer thud echoed the first.
"That sounded bloody close," said Adrian.
His reflexes were better than mine. By the time I caught up with him, he'd reached the scene of the accident and was wading into the thick of things, playing referee between a red-faced man with wild eyes, and a smaller chap with spectacles who clutched a road map to his chest, staring dismayed at the wreckage of his car. I had difficulty making sense of the colorful language spewing from the larger man, but I gathered the driver with the map had stopped suddenly on the road to get his bearings, with predictable results.
Quinnell came hurrying down the long drive, his expression concerned, and a moment later Fabia came, too, to stand by the road and watch. Jeannie McMorran appeared briefly in the doorway of Rose Cottage, took one look, and withdrew with a practical, purposeful air. She's gone to ring the police, I thought, and a few minutes later the wail of a siren proved me right. I moved well back, out of the way, against the cottage wall.