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the field where Quinnell wanted to dig. But digging, by its nature, was destructive, and archaeologists didn't do it blindly. There were other ways to see beneath the ground.
    Geophysical surveying, Adrian's speciality, relied on highly sensitive instruments to measure minuscule changes in the underlying soil. A resistivity survey passed a current through the ground to measure its resistance—walls and roads, much drier than the earth around them, showed up clearly. Where the soil was not well drained, as I suspected might be the case here at Rosehill, Adrian usually opted for a magnetic survey.
    But ground-penetrating radar was his favorite. It often proved prohibitively expensive, but then Adrian loved spending other people's money. And he loved the high technology, the physical precision. I'd seen him spend days in a field, On his own, dragging the little wheeled radar device behind him like a child dragging a wagon, moving back and forth across the same bit of ground with a thoroughness that would bore most men rigid.
    The results were usually worth the effort. His readings could reveal fascinating things beneath the most uncooperative of surfaces. And when the results were plotted on a computer, they produced a stratified landscape of black, gray, and white, like the one I was looking at now.
    Incomplete, the image showed a definite anomaly, a sharp dip spearing down through the black and gray bands. It certainly might be a ditch, I conceded. And those smaller blips off to the right could be buried features, as well. I picked the paper up and brought it closer for a better look. Funny, I thought, how these things all started to look alike, after a while. This one put me in mind of an image I'd seen only last year... they were very similar... very ... and then I saw the tiny black smudge of a fingerprint to one side of the "ditch," and I frowned.
    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