Not merely similar, I corrected myself—exactly the same. I'd made that smudge myself; I could remember Adrian ticking me off for doing it. This wasn't an original printout at all. It was a photocopy, with printing on the top edge changed to read: ROSEHILL, EYEMOUTH, BERWICKSHIRE.

"What the devil is Adrian playing at?" I asked, still frowning. I turned to Fabia. "Do you know anything about this?"

Her eyes slipped warily away from mine, to the paper in my hand. "Yes, we think that may be some sort of ditch in the southwest corner. Adrian found it last week."

David Fortune's voice surprised us both.

"It's no use, lass," he advised Fabia. "She was in Wales last year as well, with Sutton-Clarke. She'll not be so easily fooled."

We both turned around to see him standing square in the passageway, just inside the arched stable door, his arms folded complacently across his broad chest.

Fabia Quinnell shot him an angry look, then turned to me, defensive. "It's not... I mean, we didn't..."

"I'll do the explaining, if you don't mind," the archaeologist cut her off. "Why don't you go and keep your grandfather company? He's back at the house, somewhere."

Defeated by the determined tone of his voice, she brushed past him, head high. David Fortune ignored the petulant toss of her fair hair. His eyes held firmly to my face.

I looked down, feeling robbed. "I gather this is why you said I might not answer yes, when Quinnell offered. There is no Roman marching camp at Rosehill, is there?"

"I didn't say that."

"But this," I challenged him, holding up the incriminating image, "is a fake."

"Aye."

The fact that he didn't seem at all put out disappointed me, and I held the paper higher still, accusingly. "Your idea?"

"Fabia's, I think." He smiled, faintly. "Adrian shouldered the blame when I caught him, but it's not the sort of thing he'd do on his own. And he has a hard time saying 'no' to Fabia."

I sighed, and dropped the paper to the desk. "You knew about this," I said, slowly, "and yet you didn't tell Quinnell?"

"I didn't see the point. He'd already seen the image, by the time I learned what Adrian had done. I wasn't pleased about it, ken, but since it didn't do much harm..."

"Didn't do much harm?" I echoed, disbelieving. "How can you say that? Quinnell's digging for something he's not going to find."

"You don't understand." He shook his head, and with a tight-lipped sigh he looked away. "You don't know Peter Quinnell. He'd dig anyway."

"Why?"

"Because of Robbie."

It wasn't the first time I'd heard that name. Quinnell himself had mentioned it, last night, and I struggled to recall the context. Something about Schliemann having Homer to guide him to the ruins of Troy, while Quinnell had only ...

"Robbie," I repeated, shaking my head slowly as I tried to comprehend. "But who is Robbie? And what does he have to do with this?"

David Fortune took a long time answering. He seemed to be weighing something in his mind. "Best come and see for yourself," he said, finally, and with that invitation he turned and went out.

I was plainly expected to follow, though it was all I could do to keep up with his long, rolling strides. As we passed the big house, moving onto the drive, I mustered enough breath to speak. "Where are we going?"

"Rose Cottage," he replied. "You'd have passed it last night, by the road."

Even in daylight, the cottage looked warm and welcoming, built long and low of some blood-colored stone. The path leading around from the drive to the back door was lovingly trimmed and kept clear. Daffodils grew here, as well—an explosion of yellow in the deeper green of grass, and David Fortune took care not to trample them as he stooped to knock at the white-painted door.

The woman who answered the summons was young, my own age, with short chestnut hair and a fresh cheerful face warmed by freckles. Her large brown eyes widened in mild surprise at the sight of us.

"Davy!" she said, in an accent as rich as his own. "Is something wrong? Is Peter..."

"Nothing's wrong. Is Robbie about?"

"Aye." She pushed the door wider, her gaze sliding past him to me, and the surprise melted to a quieter interest. "It's Miss Grey, isn't it?" she greeted me, extending a firmly capable hand. "I heard you'd arrived. I'm Jeannie. Jeannie McMorran. I keep house for Peter." Before I could respond, she took a quick step backwards, shaking her head. "Och, I'm forgetting my manners. Come inside, the both of you."

David Fortune ducked his head to squeeze through the narrow doorway. The kitchen was narrow, too, and long, and though the sunlight couldn't quite break through the small, old-fashioned windows, the lace curtains—so white it almost hurt the eyes to look at them—and gaily patterned china plates propped up along the old oak dresser, made the room homely and bright.

David Fortune looked around, and sniffed the fragrant air. "Been baking, have you?"

"Apple tart for Brian's tea."

The big man's eyes flicked briefly to the closed door at the far end of the room. "He's back, then, is he?"

"Aye. He came in late last night. No need to be quiet, though," she added. "He'll be sleeping it off for a few hours yet."