Missing Susan

by Sharyn McCrumb

  “Fair enough,” said Rowan, standing up and stretching. “It’s only a block up to the abbey. Ladies and Charles, we’re getting off here.”

  As he marched them up the street toward the abbey, Rowan recited the particulars of the afternoon’s attraction. “Torre Abbey has belonged to the city of Torquay since 1930. Before that it was the home of the Cary family, and before that it was a monastery for…” He took a deep breath. “Premonstratensian Canons. Built in 1196.”

  “What is… what you said?” asked Kate Conway.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” Rowan assured her. “Some species of monk, I presume. Ask your guide at the abbey. They provide their own tours.” And I shall wait out in the garden and smoke copious quantities of cigarettes in blissful solitude, he finished silently.

  A few moments later they turned the corner and came within sight of Torre Abbey. Very little of the original twelfth-century architecture remained, except some ruins away from the converted abbey. Most of the structure was a solid red-brick building with white-trimmed windows, reminiscent of an American elementary school. It certainly did not resemble the group’s idea of an eight-hundred-year-old edifice.

  “And what is its connection with Agatha Christie?” asked Maud Marsh.

  “Only that this is the city of her birth,” said Rowan. “And since this is the city’s museum, they have set aside a room in her honor. The abbey also has a restored Victorian kitchen that serves teas. Off we go.”

  He bounded up the steps and into the spacious main hallway. Beside the door was an information desk, manned by a guard/ticket-taker.

  “Good afternoon,” said Rowan briskly. “I believe you have a reservation for a mystery tour of a dozen persons booked to see the abbey today.”

  The man behind the counter glanced at a chart and assured the group that they were expected. “We haven’t any guides this afternoon, though,” he said. “We were terribly busy earlier in the month, and now they’ve all taken advantage of the lull to get a bit of time off themselves.”

  “No guides!” Rowan looked stricken.

  “Don’t worry. You can take them round yerself, sir. I have a sheet here that specifies what all the exhibits are. Everything is numbered so you can’t get it wrong. All right? Off you go, then!”

  Rowan Rover, still parchment-pale and muttering under his breath, stalked off in the direction indicated by the guard, while the mystery tourists pattered happily in his wake. Bloody ad-libbing. What if they ask me something not on this handout? They entered a small room filled with ship models in glass cases. “Ladies and Charles, here we have a collection of ship models in glass cases, no doubt of sentimental importance to the folk of a coastal town,” said the impromptu guide in the hearty tone one uses to persuade children to eat asparagus. “Aren’t they neatly painted?”

  The group dutifully admired the tiny ships for several seconds. Thereupon they proceeded to further exhibits. “Here we have one of the Cary family drawing rooms. It is called the Blue Room, perhaps because of its blue walls. That constitutes a guess on my part. This paper does not actually say that.” Rowan looked around. “The room contains a crystal chandelier, a fireplace, the sort of marble statue that unscrupulous Italian con men-cum-antique dealers used to sell to…” He checked himself in mid-editorial. “Never mind. Some sculptures. And some landscape paintings of the Christmas card school of art. Take a moment to admire it.” He ran his finger down the page of exhibit listings.

  “My aunt Amanda would enjoy this room,” said Elizabeth. “She has several very much like it.”

  “It doesn’t look like an abbey to me,” sniffed Frances Coles. “I have read all of the Brother Cadfael novels, and I know about twelfth-century monasteries.”

  “I expect the family did extensive renovations,” said Martha Tabram. “People usually do when they buy an older home. We did. The Carys had over two hundred years of ownership in which to redecorate.”

  “I wonder if it would be expensive to redecorate a place like this,” mused Susan. “We have some wonderful old mansions along the Mississippi.”

  “I thought you lived in Minnesota,” said Rowan.

  “I do. On the Mississippi.”

  Right, thought Rowan, and I am king of the Belgians. American geography had eluded him completely. “And I am sure that Minneapolis has museums just as fine as this one,” he said carefully.

  “It does remind me of the Sibley House in Mendota,” said Susan, serenely unconscious of self-incrimination. “It was the home of Minnesota’s first state governor. Of course, it isn’t as old as this.”

  “Perhaps if the Vikings had been more politically inclined, it could have been,” Rowan murmured. “Of course, then it would have been the Leif Erickson House.”

  “I wonder if it would cost much to heat this place,” said Charles Warren, eager to change the subject.

  His wife shivered. “To get it as warm as I’d want, you’d have to set fire to it.”

  “Ah!” said Rowan Rover. “The guide sheet informs me that there is an exhibit of marble statuary through this passage in another small room. Supposedly by a local sculptor… nineteenth century… Ah, here we are…” He looked appraisingly at the conglomeration of carved figures jamming the tiny room. “Oh, dear, yes. He was a local sculptor, wasn’t he? I believe his name was…” Rowan had lost his place on the fact sheet, so he improvised. “… Fred Smith.”

  “The Fred Smith?” asked Elizabeth solemnly.

  “No,” said Rowan Rover. “A Fred Smith.”

  A few more rooms finished the ground-floor exhibits, and Rowan led them up a wide marble staircase festooned with paintings which, after the first shudder, he steadfastly ignored. “The Agatha Christie room is tucked away somewhere up here,” he muttered. “I suppose we’ll have to plow through more of this to find it, though.”

  He poked his nose into one dimly lit room. “Ah!” he cried, turning to face his party. “There seems to be a real painting here. Come on, come in. That large picture over there is The Children’s Holiday by Holman Hunt. It is the showpiece of the collection.” He stepped back to what he hoped was out of earshot and murmured, “Dear God, I never thought I’d see Holman Hunt seem so exalted. I think they use him at the Tate to prop doors open.”

  Frances Coles, who quite liked Victorian art, was gazing admiringly at the happy scene of a matronly woman presiding over a silver-laden tea table at an outing with her five children and their various pets. It was as exact as a photograph, and seemed to capture the children’s personalities in their varying expressions.

  “You can tell she had domestic help,” said Alice MacKenzie, who was also studying the painting.

  “I wonder if they had to cook all those things for the picnic every time Mr. Hunt came to paint some more of the picture,” mused Kate Conway.

  Having already given Mr. Holman Hunt considerably more than his due, in Rowan’s jaded opinion, the guide shooed them out into another passageway. “Now this is more like it!” he exclaimed, catching a glimpse of the framed drawings that lined the corridor. “These are William Blake’s own illustrations for Songs of Innocence. Wonderful! I thought these were in the Tate!” While the group congregated around the first few etchings, Rowan took another look at his crib sheets. “Reproductions!” he exclaimed. “The originals are in the Tate!” Seeing the questioning expression on the faces of his followers, Rowan forced a note of enthusiasm back into his voice. “But these are very good copies. Quite recognizable. And should you ever visit the Tate, you will know what to look for. Let’s move along, shall we.”

  The next room proved to be the Carys’ dining room, formally decorated eighteenth-century style, with pale green walls and an ornate ceiling, all adorned with white bas-relief scenes of Roman figures and other ancient images.

  “You have heard of the famous architect Robert Adam and the term Adam room!” Rowan solemnly inquired.

  Eagerly, they all nodded that they had indeed.

  “Well, this is
n’t one.” He turned on his heel and walked out.

  He was more enthusiastic about an unconverted part of the ancient building, with its thick stone walls and simple medieval lines. These rooms were used as workrooms for the servants. As they wound their way up the twisting stone staircase, Nancy Warren noticed a small slit in an alcove by the stairs. “What is this hole for, Rowan?” she asked. “It reminds me of a laundry chute, but it’s too small.”

  “You’re on the right track,” he said. “It’s… why don’t you lean over and take a deep breath just above it.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Nancy and Alice did as he suggested.

  “It smells like my catbox,” Alice declared.

  Rowan nodded approvingly. “Identical purpose, but for people instead of cats. The smell never quite comes out of the stone.”

  Elizabeth MacPherson muttered, “Remind me not to buy a castle.”

  “But where is the Agatha Christie room?” asked Maud Marsh, tugging at the sleeve of the guide’s sweater.

  He ran his finger along the map. “I think if we go through this door, we should be there. So, if no one wishes to try out the laundry chute, let us proceed.”

  They emerged again into the renovated part of the ancient abbey, in a carpeted upstairs hallway. “Here we are,” Rowan announced, peering into an open door. “This door on the right. Go right in.”

  There was barely space for a dozen people in the tiny room with its casement window-and its air of having been a bedroom before the museum people started stashing exhibits in every cranny. The walls were now taken up with bookcases, all filled with various editions of Agatha Christie’s eighty-odd novels, and amidst this literary display were a few framed, unautographed photos, a Mousetrap program, and a battered manual typewriter. Gravely the group studied these tributes to the city’s most famous author.

  Finally Susan Cohen broke the leaden silence. “I have a better collection than this,” she said quietly. “I have a copy of every book she ever wrote, too, and I have seen all these photos elsewhere. Except that one over there, of her brother’s dog.”

  “I have a movie poster from Death on the Nile,” said Frances Coles.

  Maud Marsh peered at the photographs and frowned. “I don’t get any feeling of the woman herself from this room.”

  “That would have pleased her,” said Rowan. “I do know that much about her.”

  “Did you say this place served teas?” asked Charles Warren, who had endured the afternoon’s enlightenment with remarkable forbearance.

  “Yes, and I think it’s time we sampled them,” said Rowan. “Nearly five. Everyone ready? I think there’s a staircase we haven’t tried at the end of this hall.” His voice trailed off into a mutter. “God knows what they’ll have stuck up on it. Stuffed badgers in choir robes, I expect.”

  Alice MacKenzie caught up with him on the way downstairs. “Look, Rowan,” she said. “This month is the centennial of Agatha Christie’s birth. There’s bound to be some sort of commemoration here in Torquay. God knows it isn’t here. Maybe there’s another museum, or if we could just go into a few shops. I promised Phyllis back at Grounds for Murder-that’s our mystery bookstore in San Diego-that I’d bring her back something on the centennial for the shop, a tea towel or something. Couldn’t we just go into town and look?”

  Rowan shook his head. “Sorry,” he told her. “We’re on a tight schedule, and I have to get you back to Exeter in time for a seven o’clock reception.” Really, he thought to himself, if this lot had been on the Crusades, they would have bought the Holy Land.

  Elizabeth MacPherson, who was just behind them on the stairs, had overheard this exchange. “Yes, Alice,” she said eagerly. “We have to get to the hotel in Exeter as soon as possible. Someone’s going to be murdered!”

  “Oh, dear! Rowan, are you all right? These stairs are treacherous, aren’t they?”

  “Well, that’s over. I hope my tea won’t be late.”

  – ERIC HOLT, upon leaving the dock

  after receiving the death sentence (1920)

  CHAPTER 8

  EXETER

  THE MURDER PARTY pronounced Torre Abbey’s cream tea with fresh scones and clotted cream infinitely superior to its exhibits. They dawdled for nearly an hour in the cheery cafe next to the abbey kitchen, wolfing down their allotment of homemade pastry and discussing the weekend’s entertainment at the hotel in Exeter. The hotel had scheduled a murder mystery event, wherein an acting troupe stages a participatory drama, killing off several cast members during the course of the weekend. The guests play bit parts in the charade while they attempt to solve the murders, trying to make sense of the very Christie-like clues put before them. All is revealed on Sunday morning after breakfast, and prizes are awarded to the correct guessers.

  “And you’re sure you won’t be able to stay for it?” Elizabeth MacPherson said to the guide. “Considering all that you and I know about real murders, we’d be sure to solve it.”

  Rowan Rover disguised his relief with a sorrowful countenance. “Alas, no. The tour company does not wish to pay for my services over the weekend, when all of you will be otherwise occupied. So Bernard and I will go to our respective homes, and we shall rejoin you on Sunday afternoon. I’m afraid you will have to solve the case without me.”

  Privately he pitied the troupe of actors who were staging the murder mystery weekend at the hotel, blissfully ignorant of the fact that they were about to be descended upon by ten well-read amateur sleuths and one relentless forensic anthropologist. He had heard of the zeal that possessed amateurs in such puzzle games-and he had resolved to avoid them. A friend of his who attended a similar event reported that one lady guest actually got so carried away that she began searching the handbags of her fellow guests. To one who made a profession of the study of murder, the entire charade sounded very dismal indeed. Besides, it would be an uncomfortable reminder of his own little drama, which would have to be staged within the coming week. He intended to devote his free weekend to meticulously planning the most perfect of all murders: one that would not be recognized as a murder at all.

  The journey out of Torquay was uneventful, except that Martha Tabram spotted a hotel bearing the name Fawlty Towers, and several tour members pleaded to be allowed to stop and photograph it. Bernard told them that neither their schedule nor the traffic would permit such a scheme, so they contented themselves with a lengthy discussion over whether the television sitcom of the same name had been inspired by the Torquay hotel, or whether it was the other way round.

  An hour later they arrived in Exeter. Rowan Rover bade them a hasty goodbye at the train station, promising to reappear at one on Sunday. “You won’t be seeing me for the next day and a half,” he reminded them for the third time. “Is there anything you want to know before I leave? Anything you want me to investigate while I’m at home with my reference books?”

  Elizabeth MacPherson raised her hand. “Could you find out if we’ll be going near Constance Kent’s house? I’m intrigued by her, and I’d like to see it.”

  “Who’s Constance Kent?” asked Susan. “What did she write?”

  “I’ll check on it,” Rowan promised. “And as to who she was-we will discuss that on some future evening. Just now, I’ve a train to catch.”

  Bernard drove them to their lodgings and parked the bus at the far end of the hotel parking lot. He then proceeded to his own home in Kensington.

  Elizabeth, who had been reveling in anticipation of all the wonderful old castles they would stay in, was chagrined to find that she had sweaters older than the Exeter Trusthouse Forte. She had to admit, though, that a luxurious room with a private bath and a view of the old city wall and the spires of the cathedral beyond it went a long way toward compensating for a lack of Olde World Charm.

  In her room was an invitation to a cocktail party and dinner, beginning at seven that evening. According to the typewritten note, the purpose of the party was to enable her to meet some filmmakers who were scou
ting for extras for a Dracula movie. Since the note was dated September 7, 1928 and signed by someone named Binky, Elizabeth was fairly certain that this was the opening gambit in the murder weekend. As a concession to Roaring Twenties, she tied a silvery scarf around her forehead, put on her red cocktail dress, and made her way downstairs to the designated party room.

  The cocktail party was held in a modest-sized banquet room with red carpeting and a dazzling chandelier. A dozen tables had been set for dinner. White-coated waiters glided among the guests, offering champagne and white wine. About fifty people were congregated in the room, some of them in period costumes, chatting rather uneasily with other strangers. It was impossible at this stage to tell who the actors would turn out to be. Elizabeth found Charles Warren there, decked out in a suit and tie and looking like a bank president. Nancy Warren was equally resplendent, but the change was not so startling in her case.

  “Erik Broadaxe dresses pretty good,” she said, smiling at them.

  In a few minutes of casual circulating, Elizabeth managed to locate all the members of her party, and some not-too-difficult eavesdropping enabled her to identify several of the players in the murder drama. They were wearing the best costumes, and they seemed to think it was 1928.

  “Isn’t this fun?” whispered Alice MacKenzie, whose lime-green pantsuit made no concession to the Twenties-or the Nineties, for that matter. “I brought my little notebook, in case we need to keep track of clues.”

  “Let’s sit at different tables and compare notes afterward,” said Susan Cohen. She was wearing a black silk sheath that contrasted poorly with her blonde coloring and pale skin, making her look more like the corpse than the sleuth. “We have an acting company in Minneapolis that stages murder weekends, and I-”

  “Shh!” hissed Elizabeth. “They’re arguing!”