"Hey, you're not allowed in here. Didn't you read the signs?" Brock shouted as Evan approached, then recognized who it was. "Oh it's you. How did you know I was here?"

"I'm a detective," Evan said. "It's my job to find what I need to know. And right now I need to talk to you about Martin Rogers."

"I thought I'd told you everything I knew the other day." Brock sounded annoyed. He picked up a piece of plastic sheeting. "The storm the other day blew off the tarpaulin. The students couldn't have secured it well enough. Now God knows what the rainwater's washed away."

Evan looked down at the square pit, with a couple of inches of water sitting at the bottom.

"So this was a Roman camp?" he asked.

"Absolutely. They used this as a staging area for the final assault on Anglesey."

"I never knew any of this existed when I was a kid," Evan said, squatting to examine the pit, "or I'd have been over here trying to help."

"Keen on archeology are you then?" Brock asked.

"I suppose I am. I've never had the chance to pursue it but I can see myself digging away and being excited at finding a bronze coin or a broken beaker."

Brock nodded. "Yes, it is heady stuff. Most of the time it's boring, routine work, of course. Day after day of sifting through soil, finding maybe a small fragment of pottery, and then one day, bingo-you find something so wonderful that it keeps you going for years. I found a Celtic torque in Ireland once, you know. Fabulous."

His face was alight with joy as he spoke.

"You were not surprised that someone had killed Professor Rogers," Evan said, straightening up again. "You seemed more amused than anything."

Brock flushed. "That's just my way," he said. "When I'm uncomfortable, I joke about it. Actually I was shocked."

"But still not surprised," Evan insisted. "Do you have someone particularly in mind who might have done it?"

"Good Lord, no. No one at all. I mean, Rogers could be a bit of a bastard. He was autocratic. He liked to act like admiral of his own ship. His way or no way at all. He knew little about archeology, and yet he would tell Skinner and me how to do our work and run our classes."

"There are rumors . . ." Evan said slowly, "that he was trying to get rid of you."

"What are you insinuating?" Brock demanded. "That I killed him to keep my job?"

"It's one of the best motives we've come up with so far."

"Then think again, mate," Brock said angrily. "I'm a pacifist. I don't believe in wars. I don't believe in killing. I've attended antiwar rallies. And you should check on your facts-I gather Rogers was killed at eight o'clock in the morning. At that hour I was kneeling in the mud here with half a dozen students to vouch for me."

"I'm sorry," Evan said, "but we have to rule people out to get at the truth. In your case, you've a bloody good alibi, unless you bribed all your students to lie for you." He smiled. "That was just a joke, by the way."

"My students probably would lie for me," Brock said. "They think I'm the greatest. I'm not stuffy like the other professors, you see. I'm quite happy to have a pint with them after we've finished at the dig."

"Not like Professor Rogers, one gathers," Evan said. "The students didn't like him?"

"He's had some nasty blowups with the Student Union, I know that. He was on the site council, so he had the power to veto any activities he didn't like. And he was pretty narrow in his views. No gay/lesbian activities. Nothing religious or inflammatory or controversial. He vetoed a speech by an extremist Muslim cleric last year. That caused a fuss with our Muslim students. Big demonstration. Oh, and he vetoed a piece of artwork he found obscene. He was a bit of a prude. I thought the sculpture was good, personally. And you needed a good imagination to spot that it was a couple having sex."

"How long ago was that?"

"Also last year. This year's been tranquil so far. Of course, students are still finding their feet this first month of classes. There are more freshmen mixers than radical speeches."

"The rest of your History Department," Evan said. "Is there anything you could tell me about them?"

Brock laughed. "There's a lot I could tell you, but none of it would have any relevance to shooting Professor Rogers."

"Gwyneth Humphries, for example?" Evan asked. "She was sweet on Rogers?"

"Clever of you to notice that. Yes, she certainly had a love/hate relationship with him. She had been known to come on strong to him, especially after a couple of glasses of wine."

"And did he respond?"

"Good Lord, no. Like I said, Martin Rogers was a prude. And Mrs. Rogers was always there, hovering in the background."

"So you can't see Gwyneth Humphries being driven mad with desire?"

Brock paused, then laughed. "No, I can't," he said. "And as for shooting somebody-she's so ham-fisted that she'd probably shoot herself in the foot first."

Evan looked around. The breeze off the Irish Sea had picked up. It wouldn't be long before those clouds on the horizon came rushing in. "I'd better leave you to put your tarpaulin back in place," Evan said. "We're due for more rain later."

"When are we not due for more rain?" Brock said. "I've lived in Wales for ten years now, and it rains with monotonous regularity."

"Where did you come from before?" Evan asked.

"Patagonia. I was born in the Welsh community there."

"Good God, were you? I've always wanted to meet someone who'd lived there. Is it true they still speak Welsh?"

"Absolutely," Brock said, switching to that language. "As you can see, I speak the language quite well."

"So we could have had this whole conversation in Welsh rather than English." Evan shook his head. "Well, sometime, when things are not so hectic, I'd really enjoy hearing about your life in Patagonia. It's always fascinated me."

Evan could see why the students liked Badger Brock. Interesting what he had said about Martin Rogers and his blowups with the Student Union. If that demonstration over the Muslim cleric had happened this year, Evan could guarantee that Rashid would have been at the forefront of it. Evan wondered if those mates Rashid had found were equally militant.

He drove on toward Bangor, looking wistful as he passed the Caernarfon Police Station, deserted on a calm Sunday. Would he ever be sent back there again, he wondered. He stopped to pick up a hamburger at a McDonald's, which was one of the few businesses that opened on Sundays, and continued on to Dr. Humphries's house.

"I didn't expect to see you again," she said. "Has new evidence come to light?"

"Something has come up, actually," Evan said, "and I thought that you probably knew Martin Rogers better than anybody so you might be able to shed some light for me."

"I'll be happy to do what I can." She led him through to a cluttered sitting room. It wasn't messy, just overfull of things, ranging from piles of books and magazines to stuffed teddy bears and photos of Gwyneth around the world.

"You like to travel?" Evan said, taking a seat where directed in a chintz armchair.

"Oh yes, it's my passion," she said. "Every vacation I'm off somewhere. Italy mainly, but I've covered most historic sites in my life."

"I don't think Professor Rogers shared your passion," Evan said. "There are no photographs of pyramids or leaning towers in his house, and his wife said she hadn't seen her sister in Provence in years."

"No, Martin was a stick-in-the-mud," she said. "His books were his travel. He liked his life to be orderly. He liked his food plain. He was not a good candidate for adventures abroad."

"His wife, was she similarly minded?"

"Who knows what Missy might have wanted had she not married Martin," Gwyneth said. "She deferred to him in everything. They ate what Martin wanted, when Martin wanted. I think she worked so hard at making his life perfect that she forgot she was entitled to a life of her own."

"This may seem a rather delicate subject," Evan said carefully, "but was it possible that Professor Rogers had a mistress?"

She stared at him, openmouthed, then she laughed. "Highly un likely, I should think. When Missy was away, a few weeks ago, he was like little boy lost. He invited himself to my place to eat because he didn't know how to fend for himself. Very much the hangdog without her."

"So Mrs. Rogers went away," Evan said. "She didn't mention that."

"She was probably embarrassed," Gwyneth said. "She went into hospital for a few days. Some feminine complaint that one doesn't talk about."

"Oh, I see. Nothing serious though?"

"Oh no, I don't think so. She was gone a few days and Martin never mentioned it again, so I presume whatever it was went okay." She smoothed back her hair. "Look, I was about to have a glass of sherry, would you like one?"

"I'm on duty, unfortunately, but please don't let me stop you," Evan said. "We should all make the most of our time off. I get so little these days that I've almost forgotten what it's like."

"I know the feeling." She poured a generous amount from a crystal decanter. "See that pile of papers. They have to be marked by tomorrow. I'll probably be up half the night." She resumed her seat, took a long sip, and then looked up suddenly. "So what was this new evidence you've come to see me about?"

Evan phrased it carefully in his own mind. "Did Professor Rogers ever mention any connection to a pizza parlor in Llandudno? Did the name Alessi ever come up? Luigi Alessi?"

"A pizza parlor? Martin loathed pizza. He wouldn't be caught dead near a pizza parlor. When we were working late at a staff meeting and someone suggested sending out for pizza, Martin said over his dead body." She put her hand up to her mouth. "Oh dear. That's not funny anymore, is it?"

"I don't think that anyone killed him because he refused to eat pizza," Evan said.

Gwyneth sighed. "I've been thinking and thinking about who might have done it, and frankly I've drawn a complete blank. I'm sure it had nothing to do with the university-and yet the university was Martin's life. He lived and breathed his work. I hate to admit it, but he was a very good historian and quite a good department head as well."

"So who will take over the department now?" Evan asked.

She flushed bright red. "I hadn't really considered it. I suppose I will, for now. Until they hire someone permanently, that is."

But she had considered it, Evan thought. She had considered it from the moment she heard about Martin Rogers's death.

At the end of another long and fruitless day, Evan finally headed for home. The predicted rain had begun and came at his windscreen in great squalls, almost too much for the wipers to handle. The clouds had come down almost to road level as he passed the lake beyond Llanberis, and the tiers of slate cliffs loomed out of the mist like castle battlements. A whole day's work, and they were no further ahead. Simon Pennington had been located, with relative ease, in Florence, where he had been staying for over a week. The arrest record on Luigi Alessi had shown no activity for several years. Before that only a couple of citations for disturbing the peace, and one on which the police were called out to a domestic dispute. But it seemed Mrs. Alessi was telling the truth that he had cut back on his drinking, and consequently, his bad behavior had improved.

Evan parked the car and slithered up the track to the cottage, which had been completely swallowed into the cloud.

"Bron?" he called, and was immeasurably relieved when she appeared from the kitchen.

"Oh good, you're home," she said. "What nasty weather to be out in. I was worried about you." He came toward her, but she backed away. "I'm not going to hug you until you change your clothes. You're all wet."

"I was thinking of taking you out to dinner," Evan said, "but I suppose I've left it too late and you've started something?"

"It's lamb chops and they could keep," she said, "but in truth it looks and sounds so horrible out there that I think I'd rather stay warm and dry and eat at home."

"We'll go out as soon as I have a day off, I promise," Evan said, hanging his raincoat on the hook by the front door. "Did you get your hike in today before it rained?"

"I did, but I didn't really enjoy it, thanks to you," she said stiffly. "You were acting like such a nervous Nellie that it rubbed off on me. When I was up on the mountainside, miles from anyone, I started to feel uneasy. I remembered that girl who disappeared last summer. So I found myself almost running to get down again. That's just not like me, Evan."

"No, it's not like you, but I can't help wanting to protect you, can I? It's a husband's job."

"Husband's job." Bronwen ruffled his hair. "You are so old-fashioned."

"And it's a wife's job to grill the lamb chops," Evan said, "while the husband finds out if there's still some red wine left in that bottle we opened."

He had just picked up the bottle when there was a thunderous knocking on their front door.

"Who on earth would come up here in this weather?" Bronwen appeared, white faced, from the kitchen as Evan went to the door. "Be careful. Don't open it."

Evan opened the door. "Mr. Khan," he said in surprise. "What's wrong?"

"You know bloody well what's wrong." The Pakistani pushed past him into the living room. Rain had plastered his hair to his face and ran down his raincoat onto the doormat. "Answer me this: What have you done with my daughter?"