He glanced out at the church, a squat gray pile of granite that seemed crouched like a hound of hell, ready to leap at his window. He tried to bolster his resolve by picturing the Deity as an ethereal version of Alec Guinness, nodding understandingly at his plight as one gentleman to another, but instead he kept seeing his first wife, with that do-come-off-it, Rowan expression that seemed permanently ingrained into her features.
“Look, it’s just this one murder,” said Rowan reasonably. “And then I shan’t break that particular commandment ever again. I could do something commendable to atone for it. Give up smoking—no, perhaps not that. It isn’t a commandment anyhow.” He wandered over to the bureau and began idly stuffing the complimentary chocolate packets and tea bags into his suitcase, next to the extra bars of soap and vials of shampoo already liberated from the bathroom. “Well, I’ll think of something.”
Alice MacKenzie and Frances Coles, who had paid tour fees based on a double occupancy rate, decided to be roommates. They had followed the porter upstairs to a spacious third-floor room overlooking the car park. Once they settled in, they boiled water for tea in the electric kettle provided in each room by the management.
Frances’ eyes shone with excitement as she savored her first trip to England. She was a primary school teacher, with that delightful quality of unjaded enthusiasm that one sometimes finds in people who enjoy small children and spend considerable time among them. With her winsome smile and jogger’s figure, she made an appealing contrast to Alice’s bluff heartiness.
“What do you think so far?” asked Frances.
Alice was reading the little packets in the china bowl beside the teapot. “Too early to tell,” she said, selecting two tea bags and placing them in the pot, which she filled to the brim with the boiling water. “I thought our guide was a little strange at first, but he seems very knowledgeable.”
“I want to buy his book,” said Frances. “If we see any bookshops, I’ll go in and look for it. I also collect cat figurines.” She fingered the emerald-eyed cat pinned to the shawl collar of her black sweater.
“We have time for a walk before dinner,” said Alice cheerily. With a fresh application of aloe cream, her finger had ceased to trouble her, and she felt refreshed after her nap in the coach.
Frances looked doubtful. “Walking by ourselves? Suppose we got lost?”
“Emma Smith and her mother are in the room next to us. We could see if they want to go. Emma spent a summer here once.” Alice poured a cup of tea for each of them. “I’d hate to spend my first day in England doing nothing. Such a waste.”
“True,” said Frances. “You never know when it might rain. Let’s ask them.”
Twenty minutes later Alice MacKenzie, Frances Coles, and Emma Smith were strolling across the lawn of Winchester Cathedral. Emma’s mother had decided to take an afternoon nap.
“There used to be more tombstones,” said Emma, frowning to summon up her memories of the Winchester of 1968. “There used to be gravesites on this green every few feet.”
“Where did they go?” asked Frances, looking around as if she expected to see grave robbers lurking behind the yew tree.
“I expect the bodies are still there,” said Emma. “As for the tombstones, look down at the sidewalk.”
Alice leaned down to inspect the paving stones and for the first time she noticed faint Gothic lettering, spelling out names and dates, with an occasional carved lamb or flower in relief. “The sidewalk is made of recycled tombstones!” she exclaimed.
“Of course,” said Emma. “This has been a cemetery for a thousand years. They would have run out of room centuries ago, if they hadn’t removed the old stones every so often.”
“I don’t see any signs of an archaeological dig,” said Frances, looking out at the smooth expanse of grass.
“They had to fill it back in after the dig was completed. The main excavation was right over here between the West Door, which is the main entrance, and the North Transept.” She indicated a plot of grass just beyond the paved path.
“What did you find there?”
“The ruins of the original Saxon cathedral,” Emma replied. “You see, when William the Conqueror invaded England, the Church sent monks in armor to fight against him. After the Battle of Hastings, he took revenge on the bishoprics who opposed him by destroying their churches and building Norman-style ones in their place. We call this the new cathedral.” Emma pointed to the great Gothic church. “It dates from 1066.”
“And William just tore down the old one?”
“Yes. He used many of the stones from the Saxon cathedral to build his Gothic one, but in Winchester he didn’t build his new church on top of the old one. He did that everywhere else, but here his architects chose to construct the new building on a site several feet to the right of the ruined church. It’s the only Saxon cathedral that will ever be found.”
“Why?” asked Alice, who hadn’t quite followed the explanation.
Emma sighed. “Because in order to find any of the other Saxon cathedrals, you’d have to tear down the present cathedrals. Canterbury, for example.”
“What a cruel thing for William to have done!” exclaimed Frances.
“He was French,” Alice reminded her.
“It made very good sense politically,” said Emma. “If you destroy the old church, the people you conquered have to worship in your church. I expect it cut down on dissension considerably.”
“Should we go inside the cathedral?” asked Alice, as they passed the West Door.
“That is scheduled for the group tomorrow morning,” said Emma. “I wonder if Thomas Thetcher is still here, though. Come on!” She left the path and began to walk away from the church toward a small group of tombstones near the outer wall of the green.
“Who is Thomas Thetcher?” asked Frances. “Anyone famous?”
“Only posthumously,” said Emma. “According to his tombstone, he was a grenadier who died from drinking small beer.”
“What’s small beer?”
“Not very alcoholic. More like soda pop. Anyway, they put the whole story in verse on his tombstone, which is what made him so infamous. When I was on the dig here in Winchester, we used to love to show him off to tourists. They couldn’t have got rid of that gravestone!”
They split up and began wandering around the upper green, reading the inscriptions on the remaining stones.
“Here it is!” cried Alice, pointing to a well-tended gravestone of old-fashioned design. “Thomas Thetcher.”
Together they read the inscription, lamenting the overheated young soldier’s death from drinking overly cold small beer. The epitaph ended with a warning to passersby: “And when you’re hot, drink strong or not at all.”
Alice MacKenzie noted it all down carefully for future inclusion in her journal. “When I die, I hope nobody puts anything silly on my tombstone,” she said in a tone that left no doubt of her opinions on the subject of prankster stonemasons.
“Oh, don’t talk about dying!” laughed Frances. “I’ve never seen a healthier group of tourists, have you?”
Elizabeth MacPherson found that she had a small, but comfortable second-floor room with a beautiful view of the cathedral out her picture window. She sat for several minutes admiring the splendor of the medieval architecture, the serenity of the cathedral grounds, and the intricacy of light and shadow on the stonework. All this ethereal pleasure was considerably enhanced by the consumption of the chocolate bar that the Wessex Hotel had thoughtfully provided for each guest.
After several moments’ contemplation of a blank sheet of hotel stationery while considering her adventures thus far (that is, since her eight A.M. departure from Edinburgh), she regretfully decided that, while she certainly had the time just now to communicate with her various correspondents, she had, alas, nothing to say. To write Having wonderful time, wish you were here would do nothing to enhance her reputation for cleverness.
She considered taking a nice bracing walk to enjoy the beauties
of the English countryside, but a glance at her watch confirmed her suspicion that the shops were closed.
She decided to have another look at Rowan Rover’s book. Since the author was an authority on British murder cases, his presence would provide an excellent opportunity for her to discuss some of the famous unsolved crimes with an expert. Because of the inexactness of forensic science in the old days, quite a number of nineteenth-century murder cases were unsolved; at least a good many people were acquitted, rightfully or not. Elizabeth enjoyed second-guessing the expert witnesses in the vintage trials. How did Adelaide Bartlett get corrosive chloroform down her husband’s throat without leaving a trace? Did the man on the green bicycle murder pretty Bella Wright on a country road near Leicester? Did Ethel LeNeve know that her lover Dr. Crippen had murdered his wife when she ran away with him to Canada?
Elizabeth was delighted at the prospect of discussing these crimes with Rowan Rover. She felt that she knew him already. After all, they had about a hundred mutual friends, most of whom had ended up on the gallows for the crime of murder. True, Rover had seemed nervous when she tried to discuss true crime with him earlier, but she put that down to a natural shyness on his part, and she was sure that his reserve would dissolve after everyone became better acquainted, especially if he was pressed to discuss his pet subject. Elizabeth decided she could help their diffident guide overcome his nervousness by discussing murder with him at every possible opportunity.
At seven o’clock Rowan Rover changed his clothes and decided that he could probably do without an evening shave. He opted for a last cigarette instead. It was time to meet the troops. He supposed it would be a good idea to get better acquainted with the lovely Susan: useful to know whether she was afraid of heights, what she drank, and so on. Rowan Rover’s greatest fear was that his susceptibility to attractive women would be his undoing. He pictured himself like the huntsman in Snow White, falling on one knee before fair Susan Cohen, telling her that her wicked uncle wished her dead and urging her to flee into the forest so that he would not have to kill her. He had a feeling, though, that besides the probability that she would not believe a word of it, such altruism might be hazardous to his own health, as well as to his financial well-being. While there might indeed be a shortage of assassins in Minneapolis, Rowan had no doubt that, if double-crossed, the resourceful Mr. Kosminski could locate one elsewhere, and that no expense would be spared in enabling the thug to track down Rowan himself and kill him in the alleys of Whitechapel or the lanes of Cornwall. Anywhere, really.
He looked at his watch. Time to go down for the glass of sherry and to learn more about the other tourists in the party. Elizabeth MacPherson, the Scot with the southern drawl, was a forensic anthropologist. He must discover more about that. Could she just identify bodies from skeletal remains, or could she also figure out cause of death, if she happened to be on the spot when one occurred? Just his luck to get a bloody medical vulture on his tour. And the Conway girl was a nurse. Who else was along for the ride? A mortician? A coroner? A bloody police inspector? Rowan reflected that he was about to express more polite interest in a group of tourists than he had ever exhibited before. He hoped they appreciated his efforts.
As he flipped off the light switch, he took one last look at the dark cathedral, silent beneath a pale oval moon. He thought he detected a definite smirk etched on the lunar surface.
In the Wessex lounge two semicircular sofas had been reserved for the mystery tour participants. A low table held a bottle of sherry and the requisite number of glasses.
Rowan Rover waited until everyone was present before addressing his charges. “Now,” he said, “suppose we go round the group and get everyone’s name—and perhaps a word from each of you about how you happened to come on the tour, and what you’d like to see.” He smiled at Charles Warren, who was no longer advertising the governing skills of Erik Broadaxe. He was now looking considerably more distinguished in a navy jacket and tie. “Suppose we start with you, Charles. No one’s likely to forget who you are.”
Charles Warren reddened a bit, and it was apparent that Nancy was the one who did most of the talking in social situations. “I’m Charles Warren. We’re from San Diego, and I own a computer electronics firm. I guess we came on this trip because we’ve always wanted to see England, and mostly because Nancy likes mysteries.” He nodded toward his wife, obviously ready to relinquish the floor.
“I’m Nancy Warren and I just adore British mysteries,” said the small blonde beside him. “I grew up with Nancy Drew and then I moved on to Agatha Christie.” She reminded Rowan Rover of the sweet-girl-next-door movie actress, June Allyson. Lucky I don’t have to kill her, he was thinking.
“Am I next?” said the elderly woman beside her. She was tall and slender, and her energy and alertness belied her age. “My name is Maud Marsh and I’m seventy-seven. I’m from Berkeley, and I read Agatha Christie and Dorothy Sayers. I like the sort of mysteries that don’t have gangsters in them.”
“Will you be able to keep up with us on a walking tour?” asked Susan.
Maud Marsh gave her a mirthless smile. “I usually walk five miles a day at home. I doubt we’ll be doing more than that.”
“Some of us may have trouble keeping up with you,” said Rowan gallantly. “Who’s next?”
“Martha Tabram,” said the well-dressed brunette with the Canadian accent. “My husband is a surgeon in Vancouver, and since he couldn’t get away this fall for a real vacation, I decided to try this tour. I wanted to see the south of England again, and this seemed like an ideal way to do it.”
“Susan Cohen, from Minneapolis,” said the intended victim, swishing her blonde hair like a model in a shampoo ad. “I’m young, so I don’t have to exercise yet, but I thought a tour might be a fun way to see England, and maybe enlarge my book collection. I admire British mysteries, too—those by Colin Dexter and P. D. James—but we also have a lot of good mystery writers around Minneapolis. Has anybody read R. D. Zimmerman? He has this one book called—”
Rowan Rover realized that henceforth they might all have to pretend to have read a good many books that they had actually never heard of. “Fascinating,” he said hurriedly. “And you are Elizabeth …”
“Yes. Elizabeth MacPherson. I’m a forensic anthropologist, with a doctorate but no job yet. My husband is a marine biologist. He went off to do seal research, so I decided to take this tour. I’ve read a few murder mysteries, but I really love true crime.”
“Having a husband who comes home with the Gulf Stream could drive anybody to true crime,” murmured Rowan, “but we’re glad to have you, anyhow. And you are …?”
“Kate Conway,” said the youngest member of the group, flashing her dark eyes at him. She was wearing a simple blue sheath dress and a string of pearls. “I’m an emergency room nurse. I like to travel. I enjoyed the public television presentations of Sherlock Holmes.”
When the discussion of Jeremy Brett’s interpretations of the Sleuth of Baker Street versus those of Mr. Basil Rathbone had subsided, Rowan Rover invited Alice MacKenzie to identify herself to the group. She announced herself in sympathy with the Christie readers and the Jeremy Brett watchers. Thereupon the attention turned to her roommate, Frances Coles.
Frances managed to smile and look terrified at the same time. She tugged at a lock of auburn hair and smoothed imaginary wrinkles out of her corduroy skirt. Rowan, who was hopeless at guessing ages, thought she might be in her early forties, but since she was a Californian it was hard to tell, since they cheated by exercising and going on diets. “I just wanted to come to England because I read so much about it,” she said softly. “I used to teach second grade. I’m a great fan of Ellis Peters.”
“You are in luck,” said Rowan Rover magnanimously. “We shall be visiting Brother Cadfael’s home city of Shrewsbury at the end of next week and you will be able to see the settings for the Ellis Peters novels.” Rowan Rover had never read Ellis Peters himself, but he was well-briefed on the tour
itinerary. Besides, years of association with university English departments had left him able to bluff his way through almost any literary discussion. Sometimes he even fooled himself into thinking that he had read Moby Dick and War and Peace.
“Am I next?” said the serious-looking young woman in rimless glasses. “My name is Emma Smith and this is my mother, Miriam Angel.”
Her mother was the most English-looking of the bunch, pale with softly waved brown hair and green eyes in a gentle heart-shaped face. In her good-but-not-new tweed jacket and well-cut skirt, she fitted Rowan’s idea of a duchess—or she would if she gained forty pounds or so. In Rowan’s experience, duchesses seldom came in small packages.
“We’re from Colorado,” Emma was saying. “My husband thought we’d both enjoy coming on this trip. He’s at home minding the two kids.”
Miriam beamed with pride. “Emma’s husband is an attorney. And such a dear!”
Rowan Rover was unable to imagine any reason why a sane man who was capable of supporting himself would offer to babysit for two children while sending his wife and mother-in-law on an extended European vacation. Knowing lawyers, though, the motives were bound to be devious. He gave the assembly a bright smile. “How lovely,” he said. “So there we all are. No real crime experts here, then.” (Thank God, he finished silently.)
“I hear you’re a crime expert,” said Alice MacKenzie.
For a moment he froze. Then he realized that the comment pertained to his theoretical connections with crime history—not his future plans to practice what he preached. “Oh, me? You want to know about me?”
The group nodded solemnly. They still had an ounce or two of sherry to finish, after all.
“Well, I am from Cornwall originally,” said Rowan Rover. “I attended a minor public school in the West Country, and then went on to Oxford. We shall be going to Oxford near the end of our tour, by the way. As some of you know, I give the Jack the Ripper tour in Whitechapel for one of the city tour companies—when I am not otherwise engaged as a media consultant on crime. And I write books about English crimes. I hope you will find me knowledgeable about your areas of interest. Certainly I shall be helpful in history and geography; fictional mystery stories are not, alas, within my realm of expertise.”
Elizabeth MacPherson 06 - Missing Susan Page 6