come to her. That was the kind of question not tackled in scientific papers, but which people like journalists would want to know.
Next she turned to some thoughts about the prevailing winds in Kihara Gorge. From what she now knew about them, did it make sense for the rock shelter to be orientated in the way that it was? Eleanor, who was herself growing increasingly excited about the “shelter,” as they were calling it, had spotted that its layout was semicircular, not straight. That made it more interesting as a structure. Natalie closed her eyes and tried to imagine life as it might have been two million years ago.
“Mind if I join you for a moment?”
Natalie’s eyes jerked open. She looked up to see Eleanor. “Not at all. Let me get you a chair.”
“No, no. Don’t worry, and don’t move. I’m not staying—I know how you love these late nights to yourself. I came to give you this.” And she put down on the table Natalie’s whiskey flask.
Natalie looked from the flask to Eleanor but said nothing.
Eleanor was carrying her own notebook in one hand. With the other she took off her spectacles. “I was wrong. Christopher convinced me. I was wrong about one or two things, my dear. I stand by my belief that a dig has to be run strictly, otherwise it falls apart. But, as Christopher said, I should get used to judging people individually, not putting everyone in the same boat.” She pointed to the flask. “It’s not a security risk, or a major corrupting influence. I’m sorry I was so strict about it. Please forgive me.”
Natalie, astonished by what she was hearing, nevertheless waved away the need to apologize. “Would you like to share one with me? See what all the fuss is about?”
“No, thank you. I don’t have a head for spirits. In any case, I fancy you’ll want to be more on your own than ever tonight.” She held up two envelopes. “Post. I completely forgot to give it to you at dinner. Something else I need to apologize for.”
She put the letters on the table, next to the flask. “Good night, Natalie.”
Eleanor disappeared into the gloom.
Abstractedly, Natalie muttered, “Good night” and picked up the letters. Both had a New York postmark. One, she could see, was from Russell.
Radio silence had been broken.
She inserted her finger under the flap. There was just one handwritten sheet inside, in black ink, plus some typed pages.
The resident nightjar was in full voice.
Dear Natalie, the letter began. I hope you receive this without it being first opened by her ladyship …
Not a good start.
I haven’t got back to Berkeley yet. I stopped off in New York and saw Richard’s parents. As you can imagine they are devastated—crushed. No, that’s not quite right. Devastated, yes, but not crushed. Richard’s father, Richard Sr., is quite a man and he is, if anything, angry, very angry. Spitting bile, fire and brimstone. Not with you, of course (I’ll come back to that), but with the Deacons in general and Eleanor in particular. Richard’s body has now been released after the inquest and is being flown back to Manhattan as I write. As soon as the funeral is over (I’m staying), Richard Sr. is planning his own trip to Nairobi and the Gorge and then we shall see what we shall see. All I can say is this: expect fireworks.
I enclose a draft of the paper for Nature on the knee joint. (I found some modern bones in a Manhattan hospital!) Daniel’s name comes first, then Richard’s, then mine. All of you are included. Please show it around, so everyone can endorse it, before it appears. I can’t bring myself to write direct to her ladyship.
I’m sorry our relationship had to begin—and end?—in the way that it did. But perhaps it’s not the final word. I hope that this season’s digging is—for you—a great success. After that—well, let’s see. I already look back on our late-night whiskey sessions with great fondness and nostalgia. I repeat that you’ll find me a much more relaxed figure in California. Come see.
Russell
She reread the letter. He was still very raw, that much was clear. His rawness was a form of energy, one of the things that she liked about him. But, now that he was away from the camp, his bitter side seemed to be overtaking him. And she wasn’t available to defuse his anger.
And how much of a threat was Richard Sutton Senior? Russell’s tone