Missing Susan

CHAPTER 5

WINCHESTER

WHEN ALL THE luggage had been stowed into the undercarriage of the coach, and the travelers had boarded the bus two by two, like Noah’s passengers on an earlier tour, Rowan Rover turned to address the group. First he introduced Bernard, their friendly and experienced coach driver, who would be the final authority on where the bus could and could not go. “England is not all motorways yet,” he reminded them. “Medieval towns were not constructed to accommodate lorries. Some of the rural counties are quite unspoiled. When we get down into the West Country, you will see some narrow lanes that wouldn’t take horses two abreast, much less allow this tin beast an unscathed passage.”

They looked up at Rowan with polite interest, possibly subdued by the fact that as far as their bodies were concerned it was ten A.M. after a grueling transatlantic all-nighter. Although the coach would have held three times their number comfortably, they still insisted upon sitting two by two, and they were all concentrated in the front six rows. He must, he realized, make a start at learning their names. His eyes strayed toward the right front seat, where a sleepy-looking Susan Cohen sat alone. He knew her name well enough; ten to go.

The bus left the airport terminal, and for the first time the members of the tour got a glimpse of English scenery. It was not an auspicious beginning. Acres of scrub woodland and pasture stretched out on either side of the congested motorway, looking less than glamorous under a buttermilk sky that threatened rain at any moment.

After a moment’s experimentation with the coach microphone, Rowan Rover resumed his briefing. “Our first destination is Winchester, appropriately enough. After all, Winchester was the first capital of England, both before and after the Norman Conquest. It was the capital of Saxon Wessex, and later William the Conqueror’s capital of Norman England. He built a palace there after the invasion.”

“It’s a bakery now,” said Emma Smith.

The guide stopped in mid-vowel. “I beg your pardon?”

“The site of William the Conqueror’s palace is now occupied by a bakery. It’s beside the market cross. The bakery has a little sign in the window.”

“Specializing in French rolls, no doubt,” said Rowan acidly. He consulted his lecture notes. “And many of the early kings are buried in Winchester Cathedral. We will be staying at the Wessex, a Trusthouse Forte Hotel right on the cathedral green.”

“I don’t remember any hotel there,” muttered Emma Smith to her mother.

Elizabeth, who was sitting in the seat in front of them, overheard this remark and turned around. “Have you been to Winchester before?”

“Yes, when I was in college, I went on an archaeological dig to Winchester. We were digging for the old Saxon cathedral that had been destroyed by William the Conqueror in 1066. Its ruins are beneath the present churchyard. But there wasn’t a hotel next to the cathedral. I’m sure of it.”

“You went on the dig when you were in college?” said Maud Marsh, momentarily distracted from the indifferent scenery of the motorway. “How did American students happen to be allowed on the dig?”

“I think the British may have needed the money to do it in a hurry,” said Emma. “As I recall, a private company was planning to build something on land that had once been part of the cathedral holdings. When they started excavating, they found ruins, so they gave the archaeologists a certain amount of time to excavate the site before it was destroyed. Two American universities-Duke and North Carolina-put up the money in exchange for being allowed to send their own archaeology students over for field study. At least I think that’s how it went.”

Miriam Angel laughed at the memory of her daughter’s adventure. “Emma wrote us twice a week, telling us about what they were finding and what work she had been assigned. Once, I remember we got a letter from her that said, ‘Dear Mom and Dad, This week we are finding mass graves in the old churchyard. We have dug up lepers from the Crusades, and plague victims from the Black Death. How long do germs live?’ Her father wrote her back: ‘We don’t know, but we burned your letters.’ ”

“One of our daughters wanted to major in archaeology,” said Nancy Warren, with a glance at her husband. “Did you become an archaeologist, Emma?”

“No. That was the Sixties, when you did things that had no bearing on real life. I majored in math after that, and I taught for a while before I got married. This will be my first trip back to Winchester since the dig.”

“I expect a lot has changed since you were there, Emma,” said her mother. “Twenty years.”

Emma Smith frowned. “I hope it isn’t too commercialized,” she sighed.

Across the aisle Frances Coles giggled. “If William the Conqueror is running a bakery, I’d expect the worst, if I were you.”

By this time Rowan Rover had finished his introductory speech and the coach was pulling onto the motorway, heading south for Winchester. Rowan slid into the seat beside Elizabeth MacPherson and consulted his notes, with a view to scheduling a fatal accident.

“Any murders in Winchester?” asked Elizabeth.

With heroic effort Rowan Rover managed not to spring from his seat and run screaming down the aisle. Instead he reached for a cigarette and took particular care to note which end to light. Once it was lit, he exercised even greater care not to stick that end into his mouth. Drawing a few calming puffs of nicotine into his lungs, he turned to his companion and murmured, “I’m sorry. Didn’t catch that over the noise of the engine. What was it you were saying?”

“I wondered if there were any famous murders associated with Winchester,” Elizabeth said. “The only one I can think of is Sweet Fanny Adams.”

Rowan stifled a cough. “That was in Alton,” he wheezed. “Dreadful story. Dismembered girl in a meadow a hundred and twenty-odd years ago. Couldn’t be much to see there now.”

“I expect not,” said Elizabeth wistfully. “I suppose they buried her?”

“The British Navy has its doubts,” said Rowan. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m a forensic anthropologist. I was hoping to get a chance to use my training at least once on this tour.”

Rowan Rover inhaled another column of smoke down the wrong passage. When his coughing fit subsided and he had waved away all inquiries about his health, he said, “I expect you will have a chance to do a bit of that at Madame Tussaud’s when the tour concludes in London. You know about the Chamber of Horrors, of course?”

Elizabeth nodded. “And I’m looking forward to taking your Ripper tour as well. Incidentally, I’ve read your book, Death Takes a Holiday. What an array of crimes. Do you remember the Alexander Evans case?”

“I believe so,” said Rowan Rover, trying to channel his thoughts back to murder in the abstract. “Glasgow, wasn’t it? Young boy who poisoned his family and was sent to Broadmoor?”

“Right,” said Elizabeth. “I knew him.”

“Did you really?” asked Rowan Rover happily. “This was after he got out, I take it? Oh! Were you on that dig in the Highlands with him where he started up again? Were you really?”

For the next thirty miles they prattled on, dropping killers’ names left and right, while Alice MacKenzie dropped off to sleep and Susan Cohen, refreshened after her own nap, told Bernard the bus driver in agonizing detail all about beautiful downtown Minneapolis.

Nearly two hours later the coach left the motorway and negotiated a series of increasingly smaller thoroughfares, until it finally pulled in to the city of Winchester. Emma Smith studied the narrow streets, flanked by rose brick buildings, sporting shop names and pub signs. “I don’t recognize any of this,” she said.

“We may have come in the back way, so to speak,” said Frances Coles soothingly. “After all, the driver has to choose a route wide enough to accommodate the bus.”

“Look, Emma!” said her mother, who was gazing out the window. “Isn’t that the market cross? I recognized it from one of the coasters you brought me.”

Emma studied the street scene with a frown of recognition. “That was the high street,” she said. “But it isn’t a street anymore. Apparently, they have made it into a mall.” Her frown suggested that she disapproved of the giddy town planners who were mucking about with the design of an ancient city. She braced herself for a renovated cathedral with neon lights and a petting zoo.

Fortunately, however, civic irresponsibility stopped short of architectural sacrilege. A moment later the bus rounded a corner. “Winchester Cathedral,” Bernard announced.

“Right over there.” It was quite unchanged. The gray Gothic edifice with its spires and buttresses sat in the middle of a well-kept green, looking much as it had for centuries, unaltered since Cromwell’s men shot out the huge pictorial stained-glass window for cannon practice and the puzzle-inept churchmen had glued it back in as a mosaic. Twentieth-century visitors to the cathedral often praised its twelfth-century builders for their modern design instincts, when, in fact, the credit should have been given to the Roundhead Artillery.

“And here’s your hotel,” said Bernard, stopping the coach in the driveway of a very modern brick and glass building a hundred yards from a wing of the cathedral.

“I see,” said Emma Smith thoughtfully. “This is what they were planning to build back in the Sixties when they found the artifacts. This is where the cathedral outbuildings would have been.”

Rowan Rover was on his feet with more immediate concerns. “Ladies and Charles,” he announced, “this is what the tour calls a free evening, which you are soon to learn means that it is not free in any monetary sense. On free evenings your meal is not paid for. You are welcome to find a reasonably priced pub or to dine here at the Wessex. We have nothing planned for you this evening except a glass of wine in the lounge at seven-optimistically referred to in the schedule as a sherry party. I hope at that time that we can talk a bit about what your interests are and perhaps get more acquainted. After that, you may have dinner on your own.”

He braced himself for a storm of protest from budget-bound Americans, who were, he knew, already reeling from the unexpected rise of the pound, making their dollars worth half as much as last year. To his surprise, no one objected to an evening at leisure. “It’s only money,” said Susan Cohen with her grating laugh. “I wonder if Winchester has any pizza parlors.”

When the coach door opened, Rowan stationed himself on the pavement in case anyone needed help getting out. They looked fit enough, but you could never be certain. “Bernard and the hotel porter will assist you with your cases. After that, we shan’t be seeing Bernard until tomorrow afternoon.”

After he shepherded them into the Wessex and saw to it that everyone had a room, Rowan Rover ascended to his own assigned quarters on the third floor to spend the remainder of the afternoon plotting his murder. He discovered that either by chance or as an expression of divine sarcasm, his tiny bedroom was graced with an enormous picture window, affording him an inescapable view of Winchester Cathedral. It loomed reproachfully before him in the fading sunlight, as he sat down with his itinerary to schedule in an unfortunate accident.

His most optimistic maiden aunt wouldn’t have called Rowan Rover a religious person, but years of public school chapel-going had left a lingering impression upon his soul that was more superstition than piety; besides, his keenly developed sense of irony could not fail to miss the omen of the cathedral view overlooking his plottings of murder.

“Well, look here,” he said to the ceiling, and to anything that might or might not lie infinitely above it, “I’ve already spent the money, all right? It’s for a good cause. Surely you don’t disapprove of a public school education? I could donate a bit to the Church, if you like.”

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.”

“Don’t worry,” said Susan Cohen cheerfully. “I’ve read most of them, and I’ll be happy to fill everyone in on the books pertaining to the areas we visit.”

“How nice,” said Rowan, from the depths of a plaster smile. “And now, before we adjourn for dinner, let me tell you tomorrow’s schedule. The hotel will serve you breakfast, any time between seven and nine-”

“I eat breakfast at six-thirty,” said Maud Marsh.

“So do I if I still happen to be up,” said Rowan. “Well, let me inquire for you. Perhaps they can provide something earlier than seven. At nine o’clock you will all assemble in the Wessex lobby and we’ll walk over across the green for your tour of the cathedral, to be followed by a quick tour of Winchester College and a look round the city. Lunch is on your own, but be back in the lobby at one. Bernard will bring the coach to the car park, and we will go off on our afternoon tour, to see the New Forest site where King William Rufus was murdered in the year 1100. We shall also visit the grave of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the creator of Sherlock Holmes.”

Elizabeth MacPherson frowned. “Conan Doyle was Scottish. He was born in Edinburgh.”

Rowan Rover acknowledged the fact with a bland smile. “His heart may have been in the Highlands, madam, but the rest of him is under a stone cross in Minstead. I shall prove it to you tomorrow. Any more questions? No? Off you go, then.”