Lethal Legend (16 page)

“Presumptuous baggage!”

Serena? Ben wondered. Or Diana?

Bitterness underscored the old man’s words and he glared at Diana throughout his diatribe. “The Peabody Museum is part of Harvard, but if Miss Dunbar was ever admitted to either, it was not for long. She bamboozled the director with some wild theory she’d dreamed up. He lauded her ideas at first, and her. Fortunately others less distracted by her person persuaded him that he was in error. She was nothing but trouble.” A flush darkened Winthrop’s lined, leathery skin and behind the glasses his eyes glittered with hatred.

“You seem extraordinarily agitated, sir.” Ben, mulling over the idea of Serena Dunbar as a seducer of well-respected archaeology professors, wondered if she’d also tried to work her wiles on Lucien Winthrop. Ben had no trouble at all imagining that she’d granted intimate favors to Graham Somener in order to win his permission to dig up Keep Island.

“I dislike charlatans!” Winthrop snapped. “I am certain you would be somewhat short tempered yourself, Dr. Northcote, if you were asked about the practices of some quack.”

“What about Paul Carstairs?” Diana asked.

Winthrop didn’t bother to look her way. “Never heard of him.” He reached for his cup and took a reviving swig of hot tea.

“Frank Ennis?”

“No.” He took off his glasses, cleaned them with his handkerchief, and replaced them on the bridge of a thin, slightly hooked nose. “Who are they?”

“Miss Dunbar’s associates.”

“Then it is likely they are amateurs with no proper training whatsoever. Such people take up archaeology as a hobby, a treasure hunt. They do more harm than good. They are careless when they dig, destroying as much as they discover, and have a tendency to go haring off after unsubstantiated rumors.”

Ben—polishing off a second sandwich filled with thinly sliced chicken and quite tasty—thought that the same things had probably been said about Heinrich Schliemann ... before he proved his critics wrong by discovering the ruins of Troy.

“Have you encountered any legends about Keep Island in your studies?” Diana asked.

Winthrop abruptly stopped drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Is that where the Dunnett woman is working?”

“Dunbar,” Diana corrected him.

“I am not familiar with the place. I know nothing about it.”

Ben found that difficult to believe. As the crow flew, Keep Island was less than fifteen miles from Belfast and they already knew that the locals had taken an interest, witness that dory on the day of the dive.

With their modest repast nearly depleted, Diana returned to the subject of Serena’s credentials. “Could she have received training elsewhere?”

“I’d have heard of it if she had,” Winthrop insisted, “and I would have met her if she’d ever worked on a legitimate excavation anywhere in New England.”

“But women
are
sometimes trained as archaeologists, are they not?”

“A few become qualified to
assist
.” It seemed to pain Winthrop to admit even that much. “Most do not. They are rank amateurs and unwomanly with it, parading about in men’s clothing, as though that alone can make them our equals!”

“Does Harvard ever admit women to—”

“I believe you said you wanted to talk to me about
my
work, Mrs. Spaulding,” Winthrop cut in. “Shall we begin?”

Diana did not much like Lucien Winthrop, but at least he proved easy to interview. Ask a single question and he would ramble on at length, so long as it was a topic that interested him. He did not share the common fascination with ancient Egypt or the pre-Columbian cultures of Central and South America but he proudly showed off the artifacts that decorated the walls of his library and was more than willing to expound on his theories about the everyday life of prehistoric Maine Indians.

“I understand there are excavations ongoing at a place called Casa Grande,” Diana said, calling up the name Ben had told her Miss Dunbar had mentioned in connection with Paul Carstairs. “Did you have a hand in that?”

Winthrop scowled. “Why would I? My primary field of study is early New England.”

“But you know about that project?”

“Hemenway Southwestern Archaeological Expedition. Yes. It is financed by Mary Hemenway of Boston.”

“A woman?” Diana could not quite keep the amusement out of her voice, but Winthrop didn’t seem to notice.

“A philanthropist, not an archaeologist. The expedition explored along the Gila River and did some excavating of Hohokam ruins in the Salt River Valley and then visited Casa Grande this past January only to discover that souvenir hunters had vandalized the place. That launched an effort to preserve the ruins. There was a lengthy piece in the
Boston Herald
.”

“Did they—”

“Mrs. Spaulding, Casa Grande is an example of a class of structure peculiar to the ancient town-dwellers of the Southwest. While interesting, it has little to do with most Indians, especially those in the Northeast.”

“Tell me, sir,” Ben interrupted smoothly, “what is your opinion on the existence of the fabled city of Norombega, described by some early explorers as being in the vicinity of present-day Bangor?”

This appeared to be a subject more to Winthrop’s liking. Initially Diana found the tale—a local legend—fascinating, but soon the professor had launched into one of his more pedantic lectures. Concluding that it was too technical—and too boring—to keep her attention, Diana decided that the interview was at an end.

Tucking her little notebook with its green cloth cover into her pocket, she considered what more she might learn while they were here. Winthrop’s statements about Serena Dunbar had been offhand at first, then more personal. His claim never to have met her had not been convincing, nor had his statement that he’d never heard of Keep Island. He’d been just a little too vehement in his denials. He was hiding something, but what?

One look at Ben and Professor Winthrop assured Diana that they were deeply involved in a lively debate concerning the origins of the earliest settlers along the Maine coast. Ben spoke with surprising authority on the subject, revealing a side of himself Diana had not seen before.

The man was just full of surprises, she thought as she slipped quietly out of the parlor, most of them quite wonderful. A smile on her face, she began to explore the rest of Professor Winthrop’s house. If Winthrop even noticed she was gone, he’d assume she’d gone to answer a call of nature.

The professor’s library was just down the hall from the parlor. After a furtive glance over her shoulder, Diana ducked inside and closed the door behind her. Let the eccentric old curmudgeon babble on to Ben. She’d see what she could discover on her own.

She found herself in a room lined floor to ceiling with shelves containing books, document boxes, and scholarly periodicals. A roll-top desk held place of honor to the left of the fireplace and it, too, overflowed with thick tomes. Some Winthrop had left lying open. Others bristled with slips of paper marking pages he wanted to look at again. Clearly, in spite of his retirement from Harvard, he was still a working scholar.

Diana slid into the desk chair and began to examine the clutter. One book related to Micmac legends about a hero named Glooscap. Another discussed Abnaki artifacts. There was also a report on the current state of members of the Penobscot and Passamaquoddy tribes. A yellowed and much-thumbed issue of the
Journal of the Royal Geographical Society
from 1835 lay half hidden beneath it.

Since nothing there seemed to have a connection to Serena Dunbar or Keep Island, Diana abandoned the desk to browse among the books on Winthrop’s shelves. She was not certain what she expected to find. In fact, after examining several extensive sections of shelving, she began to wonder if she would recognize significant material even if she stumbled upon it.

It was with a sense of pleasure and no little relief that she spotted the annual report of the Peabody Museum at Harvard University for 1886. Diana removed the volume from the shelf and quickly found the list of officers and special assistants. The first name she came to Frederick Ward Putnam, Peabody Professor of American Archaeology and Ethnology at Harvard University, Curator.

Dear Dr. Putnam
, Miss Dunbar had said that evening in her bedroom.
He thought I was brilliant.

A brilliant confidence woman! And Putnam, no doubt, was the director Winthrop said she’d bamboozled. Miss Dunbar had taken an extraordinary amount of time and trouble with her scheme, whatever it was. She must have picked Putnam’s brain to learn how to pass herself off as an archaeologist. Then she’d devised an elaborate plot that required three people and boatloads of equipment to carry out. The only thing she hadn’t foreseen was that Professor Winthrop would retire in the vicinity. That was a piece of sheer bad luck for Miss Serena Dunbar.

Diana located Lucien Winthrop’s name a few lines below Putnam’s. He’d been an “Assistant in the Field.” Reading on, Diana realized that almost everyone seemed to be an assistant of some sort. To her surprise, several of them were female.

Qualified to assist
, Professor Winthrop had said, making it sound as if women in archaeology were only fit to take notes and wash pots. She read on. One woman was an “Assistant to the Museum,” another “Special Assistant in American Ethnology,” and still another a “Student Assistant.” A fourth held the title “Special Assistant in Mexican Archaeology.”

Skipping down to a second list with the heading “Students,” Diana found several names identified as being “in the Graduate School” and one was “Class of ‘87. Private Student.” She wondered precisely what that meant, but she did not suppose it mattered. There were no females on this list.

Idly, she skimmed the rest of the report, stopping to read in more detail only when she caught sight of a second reference to one of the special assistants. Professor Putnam had singled her out for praise in his curator’s report. “She is able to perform thorough and important work,” he wrote. “Familiar with the Nahuatl language, having intimate and influential friends among the Mexicans, and with an exceptional talent for linguistics and archaeology, as well as being thoroughly informed in all the early native and Spanish writings relating to Mexico and its people.” He called her preparation for her duties “as remarkable as it is exceptional.”

Winthrop’s contention that women lacked sufficient educational background might be true—the titles “Doctor” or “Professor” did not appear before any female names—but at least one woman had apparently been accepted by the head of the Peabody as an expert in her field.

Diana closed the 1886 annual report and considered what she’d learned. She had a feeling that the addition of this woman to the staff of the Peabody had hastened Winthrop’s retirement. It would certainly have done nothing to lessen his obvious dislike of women in a male professions.

Concerning Serena Dunbar, however, Diana was inclined to accept Winthrop’s assessment. He had confirmed what she already suspected, that Miss Dunbar was not an archaeologist of any sort. That being the case, she was undoubtedly a confidence woman, an exceedingly clever one who’d taken up with a real archaeologist in order to learn enough about the subject to pass herself off as a professional.

Returning to the parlor with as little fuss as she’d left it, Diana found Ben and Winthrop still discussing colonial days. If either one had noticed her absence, they did not mention it. She settled into the same chair she’d previously occupied and turned her thoughts to what she should do next. A telegram to the Peabody Museum would be in order, she decided, to confirm that Professor Winthrop had told them the truth about Miss Dunbar. A conscientious journalist never relied on only one source.

* * * *

Diana was barely awake the next morning when her bedroom was invaded. Her mother came in first, closely followed by Maggie Northcote and a local dressmaker. The latter, a quiet little woman armed with pins and measuring tapes, listened attentively as Elmira and Maggie gave orders. She paid no attention whatsoever to Diana.

“White corded silk with point lace,” Elmira said.

“No. White satin with crystal beads,” Maggie countered.

“Satin is too heavy for this time of year.”

“June in Maine is not that warm. A bridal suit should be satin. Perhaps brocaded instead of plain? With a full train of the plain, puffed in back, and a pointed waist trimmed with lace.”

“Silk,” Elmira insisted, “but perhaps Ottoman silk with a pearl front.”

Desperate for coffee, Diana was slow to rally. She couldn’t understand why they were discussing bridal dresses. She already had the gown she meant to wear at the ceremony, a simple light gray silk dress embroidered in silver. She’d bought it in Denver as part of the trousseau her mother had paid for.

Elmira and Maggie were too busy arguing to notice when Diana slipped out of the bedroom and went downstairs to the dining room. The sideboard was laden with breakfast dishes and—thank God!—a full pot of coffee.

Her mother’s husband, Ed Leeves, sat at one end of the table, engrossed in a newspaper. He nodded a good morning to her but left her alone until she’d consumed two cups of strong coffee and a plate of buttered toast.

“Your mother only wants what’s best for you,” he said mildly.

“My mother is going to drive me to distraction,” Diana muttered.

She was awake enough now to comprehend what was going on in her bedroom. Her first impulse was to flee, but even if she had been fully dressed, instead of wearing only her nightclothes, it wouldn’t do her any good. She’d have to come back at some point and Elmira would still be here.

“I’ve found it is easiest to pay lip service to whatever she wants,” Leeves said, winking one coal-black eye, “then suit myself.”

Diana had no intention of taking advice from a man who controlled half the criminal activities of Denver, but she was grateful for his sympathy. “That is difficult to do when they seem determined to rearrange every aspect of my wedding.”

“Is it really so important what dress you wear?”

Diana thought about it. “Yes.” Her mother was a formidable woman. So was Maggie Northcote. But it was
Diana’s
wedding.