A Tourist's Guide to Murder

by V. M. Burns

  We were on our own for dinner and were told to meet downstairs tomorrow morning, promptly at nine for the start of our tour. However, to kick things off, Clive offered to lead the group on a Jack the Ripper walking tour to the sites where each of the victims from the grisly murders were discovered.

  Tiffany Blankenship, the Florida doctor’s wife, raised a timid hand. “Won’t it be dark?”

  Clive smiled and gave an evil laugh. “Precisely. The dark will be the best time to view the sites where the Ripper did his dirty work.”

  Most of the group chuckled nervously, but the American housewife didn’t seem to enjoy the joke.

  I was pleased when Nana Jo invited Hannah Schneider to join us for dinner. We spent a pleasant time eating, drinking, and talking in the hotel dining room. When we finished, we met Clive and the other members of the party in the lobby and headed out for our first guided tour to Whitechapel.

  Clive Green was a knowledgeable and enthusiastic guide who milked the mystic and horror of the gruesome murders for every bit of theatrical drama he could.

  Tiffany Blankenship shivered as we walked back to the tube station to head back to the hotel. “I could have done without all of the grisly details of those horrible murders.”

  “I’m not really a Ripper scholar, but I suspect he laid on the details a bit thicker than was necessary for dramatic effect.”

  She scowled. “Well, I could have done without the effect.” She wrapped her arms around her body. “I think talking about that stuff just makes people want to do it . . . to re-create that horror.”

  “I don’t know that talking about murders that happened over a century ago will inspire someone who isn’t already deranged to that level of brutality, but I can assure you that you couldn’t be safer than with this group of people.”

  She gave me a puzzled look.

  I pointed to Nana Jo and Dorothy, who were walking in front of us asking Clive questions. “My grandmother and her friend are martial arts experts.”

  She looked skeptically at the older women and then her eyes asked, Are you joking?

  “Trust me. I pity the fool who would try to attack you with either of them in the vicinity.”

  She gave Nana Jo and Dorothy another hard glance, but I noticed she dropped her arms as though she was no longer as cold as she was just moments earlier.

  I smiled.

  “Honestly, I’m not sure why Vince wanted to come on this tour,” she mumbled. “I would have rather we went to a quiet beach.”

  “Not a mystery fan?”

  She shrugged. “We came on this tour to get away from death and sickness and to . . . reconnect. I guess I don’t find a tour focused on murder to be very romantic.” She folded her arms again. “I wish we’d never come on this tour.”

  I wondered myself but decided it was better not to ask and walked along in silence.

  Afterward, we returned to the hotel. Everyone decided to go back to the bar for complimentary drinks. I noticed Major Horace Peabody sitting alone in a large armchair. He had a large bottle of Scotch on a side table nearby and was making his way through the bottle. Tired from the day’s activities, I decided to forego the drinks and went up to my room.

  As tired as I was, I expected to fall asleep the moment my head hit the pillow. However, that’s not what happened. Instead, I tossed for about an hour before I decided to get up and write to give my mind time to unwind.

  Gladys sat at the large wood table with her head on her arms, facedown, and sobbed.

  Mrs. McDuffie patted the maid on the back. “There, there, Gladys,” she said softly. Then the stout, middle-aged woman narrowed her eyes. “I wish that little peacock woulda tried that on with me.” She huffed. “I’d have shown him the power of a well-placed knee.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Gladys mumbled in between her tears.

  Frank McTavish, the footman, squatted next to the crying maid. “Don’t cry, Gladys. I’m sure it’ll be okay. Besides, if me and me mates ever get ahold of him in a pub one dark night, we’ll teach him a lesson.”

  “Now, I don’t want to be ’earing about none of that talk,” Mrs. McDuffie said and sat up tall. “Although it breaks my ’eart to say it.”

  Thompkins entered the room with the stained shirt in his hands, which opened a new floodgate of tears for the maid.

  “I’d like to get me ’ands around that bloke’s neck and . . .” Mrs. McDuffie demonstrated with a tea towel exactly what she would like to do.

  Rather than relieving the maid’s distress, the demonstrations of support from her companions made Gladys sob even more.

  Hyrum McTavish, the groundskeeper, poked his head around the corner. “What’s going on?”

  In a few short sentences, Frank filled in his father.

  The groundskeeper squinted and stared at his son. Then he took his gnarled and knubby hands and sipped at the cup of tea the cook, Mrs. Anderson, had poured for him.

  “Ta.” He sipped his tea. The groundskeeper was never much of a talker, but his silence was deeper and more intense than usual. His expression was so serious, his son became agitated.

  Frank nudged his father out of his reverie. “Da’, what’s the matter?”

  “What did you say this bloke calls ’imself?” the groundskeeper asked.

  “Captain Archibald bloody Jessup,” Frank spat out.

  To this point, Thompkins had listened in silence, but this type of language was too much for the prim and proper butler. He felt it was his responsibility to set an example of proper behavior befitting the servants of the Marsh family. He cleared his throat. “That’s enough of that type of language. Regardless of any personal feelings on the matter, Captain Jessup is a guest of the Marshes and deserves to be treated with respect.”

  Applause.

  Captain Jessup came around the corner and clapped. “Wonderful. I’m touched to come down here and hear such a touching speech.”

  Gladys and all the women hurried to their feet. Jim and Frank stood, but their postures were anything but reverential.

  Thompkins glanced at the footmen with a look that indicated they would be dealt with later.

  The only person who did not stand was Hyrum McTavish. The groundskeeper stared at the former military man with a look that was just a shade short of disgust.

  Captain Jessup sneered. “I guess I was correct in assuming the quality of servants isn’t what it once was even in the great houses of the British aristocracy.”

  Mrs. McDuffie fumed. “Well, I never.”

  Thompkins bristled at the disparaging remark but maintained his perfect posture.

  Hyrum McTavish looked around quizzically. His eyes landed on the captain. “Oh dear. Are you referring to me, sir?” He gazed up at the captain, and something like recognition passed between the two men.

  Hyrum McTavish nodded and then used the table to hoist himself up from his seat with a lot more effort than he’d demonstrated earlier. He groaned as he stood. “Oh, some days me bones don’t want to cooperate.” He sighed. “Ever since Passchendaele, I’ve just been a shadow of my former self.”

  Captain Jessup gasped, and a look of fear flashed across his face.

  The look wasn’t lost on the groundskeeper. “Are you, by chance, a military man?”

  Captain Jessup stared. “Did you say, Passchendaele?”

  McTavish nodded. “Aye, I was just a private meself, but I served in the Battle of Passchendaele.”

  “I didn’t know . . . I mean . . . reports were . . . there were heavy losses.”

  “Aye.” McTavish shook his head, but he never took his eyes from the captain’s face. “Far as I know, only two people survived that battle. Me and a sergeant. Funny man, that sergeant, he was terrified of bees. Allergic he was.” He squinted. “I would recognize that sergeant anywhere.”

  There was a tense moment. After a few seconds, Captain Jessup backed up. “Yes, well, jolly good . . . I came down to talk to . . . Thompkins about my shirt, but . . . it can wait.”
He backed out of the room.

  Everyone stood staring at the spot where the captain had stood just moments ago.

  Mrs. McDuffie was the first to speak. “Well, what do you suppose that was about?”

  Everyone stared.

  The groundskeeper whispered, “What, indeed.” After a few moments, he turned to leave.

  Thompkins stared at the groundskeeper and recoiled at the look on McTavish’s face. The groundskeeper had a look of pure hatred in his eyes.

  I’m not sure what time Nana Jo came up to bed, but she was sound asleep when the alarm went off the next morning. The fact that she had fallen asleep without changing into her pajamas was probably a direct result of the amount of alcohol she’d consumed the night before. However, by the time I had showered and left the bathroom, she was at least awake.

  “Good morning.”

  Nana Jo grunted and waddled into the bathroom.

  By the time she came out, I was dressed. I’d packed all of my new clothes into my duffel. I had ordered two cups of coffee and had one waiting when Nana Jo came out of the bathroom. She walked to the table, picked up the cup, and downed the entire cup before she looked up. “Thank you.”

  I smiled. Nothing soothes the savage beast better or faster than caffeine.

  Nana Jo dressed and consolidated her packages into one large bundle. Not having luggage certainly made packing easier.

  In record time, we headed downstairs to get a more substantial breakfast, which I hoped would include bacon and a lot more coffee.

  Our first stop was to the ballroom. I had left my brochure and wanted to pick up another one. I stuck my head in the room, which at first glance, appeared to be empty. I went in and looked around on the counter, where I found the brochures, and turned to go when I noticed Major Peabody. He was wearing the same clothes from the night before, but there was a strange tilt to his head.

  Just then, Clive Green entered the room. He glanced in the direction of Major Peabody and slowly took a few steps toward him. “Major Peabody?” He waited. After a few seconds, he followed it up with a shake. When he got no response, he leaned over and felt the major’s neck for a pulse. After a long pause, he stood and turned.

  “He’s dead.”

  Chapter 8

  I didn’t realize Dr. Vincent Blankenship had joined us in the ballroom until Nana Jo turned and said, “Dr. Blankenship, perhaps you should have a look at him?”

  Dr. Blankenship frowned. “I’m on vacation.”

  Both Nana Jo and I stared at him, and he shrugged. “If he’s dead, there’s nothing I can do for him now.”

  Our silence must have shamed the doctor, who turned a slight shade of red and then huffed and took a few steps forward. He was halted by Clive.

  “No. I think it would be best if we call a British doctor.”

  Dr. Blankenship’s neck flushed. “I know there are a number of differences between the United Kingdom and the United States, but I assure you that I’m capable of determining whether or not a man is dead even in England.”

  Clive reassured the doctor that he meant no offense, while muttering words like “international incident,” “red tape,” and “the National Health Service rules.” He insisted on calling a British doctor.

  “Fine with me,” Dr. Blankenship said.

  “I’d better tell the hotel manager,” I said. I rushed to the lobby. After a discreet word with the manager, he told me the hotel had a physician on call.

  He dialed the doctor and asked him to make his way into the ballroom.

  By the time the hotel manager and I got back into the ballroom, we were just in time to see two waiters carrying Major Peabody out of the room. I stopped. “Should they be doing that?”

  The hotel manager said, “I’m sure the doctor would rather have the . . . ah . . . Major Peabody removed to one of our private guest rooms.”

  The hotel doctor entered and the manager quickly ushered him through the same doors where the major had just been carried.

  “I may not know much about British law,” Nana Jo said, “but it still seems odd to me to move a body before the police arrive.”

  Clive Green’s return was so quiet, I didn’t know he was behind us until he spoke. “The police! Why, there’s no need to involve the police. Major Peabody died of natural causes. I assure you there’s no need to call the police.” He hurried off.

  Nana Jo whispered, “Me thinks the gentleman doth protest too much.”

  Dr. Vincent Blankenship stared as the door closed. After a few moments, he glanced at me and Nana Jo. Perhaps he noticed the disapproval that was painted all over Nana Jo’s face. He sighed. “Look, I’ve been working a lot of ungodly hours, and I finally get a week of vacation, and all I get is, Can you take a look at this rash? Can you give me something for an upset stomach?” He huffed. “Doctors deserve time off too.”

  Nana Jo raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

  Clive Green hustled to round up the tour group and got everyone onto the bus. Once everyone was on board, he announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, as many of you may have heard, our tour owner, Major Horace Peabody, passed away quietly in his sleep last night.”

  The few guests who had yet to hear the news gasped in shock.

  “Was the major ill?” Nana Jo yelled from her seat near the middle of the bus.

  I nudged her with my elbow, but years of experience told me that my elbow would have little effect.

  Clive cleared his throat. “Well, I believe the major had a bit of a dicky ticker.”

  The American couple were seated in front of us, and I overheard Tiffany ask, “What’s a dicky ticker?”

  Her husband shrugged.

  Nana Jo leaned in over the seat and chimed in, “It’s a bad heart.”

  “Oh.”

  Nana Jo sat back and frowned.

  “What’s the matter now?” I said.

  “Usually people with a bad heart don’t drink an entire bottle of Scotch.”

  “How do you know he drank the entire bottle?”

  She glanced at me. “Surely, you noticed when we left him last night the bottle on the table next to him was almost full, and this morning the bottle was empty.”

  Professor Lavington was seated behind us. He must have been listening to our conversation because he stuck his head over the top of my seat. “I noticed that too.”

  Nana Jo fired back. “And did you notice there was a glass on the table near the major when he was sitting by the fire, but this morning, it was gone?”

  Professor Lavington nodded. “Yes, and did you see how that niece glared at him last night? She looked like she would have loved to stab him right through the heart.”

  Nana Jo was bad enough without someone to egg her on. I knew I needed to put a stop to this speculation. “Just because we are on a Murder Mystery Lovers Tour of England, doesn’t mean there has to be a murder.” I glanced up at our conversation hijacker, who merely gave me a skeptical glance and then sat back down in his seat.

  I saw Ruby Mae was seated next to our new friend, Hannah Schneider, and I was happy to see the two of them hitting it off.

  “Seems odd to continue on the tour while the owner is lying back there stiff as a board,” Nana Jo whispered loud enough for everyone to hear.

  Clive responded, “Major Peabody wouldn’t want to upset your schedule.” He pronounced schedule like “shed” and “yule” rather than the way Americans pronounced the word. “Major Peabody was a businessman as well as a Murder Mystery Lover, and I assure you nothing would have given him greater pleasure than knowing we’re continuing his legacy.”

  “Fat chance,” Nana Jo mumbled.

  I gave my grandmother a hard glance, but it was wasted on her.

  Within a few brief moments, our bus pulled away from the curb and we were on our way.

  For about five minutes after our bus pulled away, I felt guilty about the idea of having fun while Major Peabody lay dead. However, I was on vacation; plus I didn’t really know Major Peabod
y. It wasn’t like we were old friends. So, I pushed aside all feelings of guilt and prepared to enjoy myself. In fact, I hated to admit it, but I was grateful Major Peabody’s death occurred quickly. I hadn’t had time to get to know him, so his death didn’t affect me much.

  Clive Green announced that the morning would be spent with a whirlwind tour through London. We made a quick stop at Buckingham Palace, primarily for photo opportunities. We were near but not close enough to the Royal Guard to embarrass ourselves too much. However, since this was a Murder Mystery Lovers Tour, Clive Green talked about some of the more ancient murders that had taken place in the past and even the attempted murder of Queen Victoria.

  Our next stop took us to the Sherlock Holmes Museum at 221B Baker Street. I’ll admit to being intrigued since Sherlock Holmes wasn’t a real person. As we got off the bus, Hannah Schneider said, “I’ve been curious about this place ever since I saw it on the tour.”

  “How do you make a museum for a fictional place?” Ruby Mae asked the question that had been running through my mind.

  Clive Green overheard us. “Ah, this is a question that many people have asked over the years. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle created the consulting detective who first appeared in print in 1881.” The guide went into the history of Sherlock Holmes and his companion, Dr. John Watson. “As you all know, in the stories written about the detective, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson shared a flat at 221B Baker Street from 1881 to 1904. In reality, there was no 221B Baker Street in 1881. Technically, there’s still no 221B Baker Street. This building”—he waved his arm to encompass the structure—“was really 239 Baker Street. In the 1930s, this block of buildings was occupied by the Abbey National Building Society. From the moment the Abbey National moved in, they started receiving mail from all over the world for Mr. Sherlock Holmes. At one point, there was so much mail, they actually employed someone to respond to the urgent correspondence requesting the detective’s help. In 1990, the Sherlock Holmes International Society opened a museum. We can’t know for sure why Doyle chose to use this particular building for the detective, but Holmes’s notoriety has made this address famous. The building is now listed with the British Trust in honor of the great detective and is decorated as it would have been in Victorian times with items mentioned in the stories.”