Missing Susan

CHAPTER 9

DARTMOOR

THE SUNDAY AFTERNOON drive to the next destination was a short one: seventeen miles to the edge of the Dartmoor National Park, to the Manor House Hotel, a beautiful Jacobean-style mansion nestled among the moors. Bernard maneuvered the coach up the narrow access road, past the golf course, and up to the massive stone arch that marked the entrance to the Manor House parking area. From the vantage point of a full-sized tour bus, the archway looked dangerously low and disastrously solid.

“You’ll never make it,” said Susan Cohen, surveying the obstacle from her usual seat behind the driver. “You’d have to be stupid to even try.”

Charles Warren got up and signaled for Bernard to open the coach door. He walked through the arch and, with a succession of nods and hand signals, he guided the coach through the archway with inches to spare. When he had parked in the paved lot on the side bordering the golf course, Bernard modestly acknowledged the cheers of the passengers and then climbed down to unload the suitcases.

The tour members stood in the parking lot and surveyed their new lodgings, the first of the accommodations that was not newly constructed. This one was imposing and ancient-looking, but a certain reticence on the part of the hotel literature led Rowan to suspect (aloud) that it was actually constructed in the late nineteenth century by a nouveau riche industrialist with aristocratic delusions. The Manor House was a sprawling beige stone building, or series of buildings, about the length of a city block, with formal archways, pitched roofs, and multiple chimneys, looking very much like the country estate it must have been once. The enormous mansion was set down in an expanse of well-tended lawn, surrounded by acres of wood and park land, some of which was now a golf course.

“This looks familiar,” said Maud Marsh, twisting a lock of silver hair. “I’m sure I’ve seen this place somewhere.”

“I expect you have,” said Rowan Rover. “It was the setting for the 1939 version of The Hound of the Baskervilles with Basil Rathbone.”

The others gathered around. “Oh, is this Sherlock Holmes country?” asked Susan.

“The Hound of the Baskervilles is set in this area,” Rowan replied. “Many of the place names mentioned in Conan Doyle’s story are variations of actual places nearby: Hound Tor and Black Tor. Cleft Tor can only be Cleft Rock. If you know the area well, it is possible to pinpoint the locations in the story.” He paused for two beats, and then said, as if the thought had just occurred to him, “Would you like to go for a walk on the moors? It’s an unseasonably warm day for September. Not a cloud in the sky.” He glanced at Elizabeth MacPherson. “No shops open.”

Everyone assured him that they would love to go for a walk, and they agreed to meet on the south terrace of the manor in twenty minutes.

Rowan closed his personally annotated guidebook with a smile, wondering how well any of them actually remembered the Holmes tale. He had wisely chosen not to read them the passage of his notes concerning another feature of the Baskerville story:

You see, for example, this great plain to the north here, with the queer hills breaking out of it… You notice those bright green spots scattered thickly over it? Rowan looked up from the page to scan the rolling grassland beyond the Manor House. He thought he did see such patches of green. That is the great Grimpen Mire… a false step yonder means death to man or beast.

Elizabeth MacPherson never claimed to be psychic, not even in the dimmest candlelight in an evening of ghost-storytelling, but something about Moretonhampstead made her uneasy. She had a tiny room on the top floor of the manor, with an impressive view of the rolling green moorland, but even in the full sun of a cloudless September day, she felt chilled by the atmosphere of the place. She had walked up the flights of stairs to her room, and, while all was bright and elegant on the lower landings, the higher reaches gave way to worn green carpeting and walls in need of new paint.

“Top floor,” she said aloud. “Old servants’ quarters. This is where the first Mrs. Rochester would have lived, I presume.” The fact that her room was well-kept and tidy, with a private bath and a television, did little to dispel her feelings of gloom after the long trek up the endless flight of stairs. From her casement window she could see the south lawn and the moors beyond, but the narrow walkway outside the window made her think of cat burglars and itinerant vampires. “At least it’s only for one night,” she reminded herself.

Hurriedly she changed into slacks and sensible walking shoes, glad for an excuse to leave her solitary quarters. Even a walk without shopping was better than being the madwoman in the attic.

When she arrived on the south terrace, she found the rest of the group already assembled and posing for pictures on the stone balustrade overlooking the flower beds. Susan Cohen and Charles Warren took turns playing photographer with their respective cameras. Rowan Rover had put on his tan windbreaker in anticipation of windy weather on the moors. He gravely inspected the rest of the party to see that no one proposed to mountain climb in high-heeled shoes or sundresses. Satisfied that the troops were at least impersonating competent hikers, be began the march down the wide stone steps and across the grass. There is a path through the woods at the bottom of this hill,” Rowan told them. “It eventually ends up in North Bovey, but I thought that you might prefer a nice bracing walk on the moors.”

He had studied Barts Drivers Road Atlas to Britain and discovered to his annoyance that the Great Grimpen Bog was not among the topographical landmarks featured in that August volume. Still, his annotated Sherlock Holmes had mentioned it, coyly noting that Conan Doyle had merely changed the name Great Grimpen Bog to Great Grimpen Mire in order to avoid the use of the schoolboy’s word for toilet. My plan will be in the bog without any paper if there isn’t any mud, Rowan thought, reverting to the juvenile use of the word. He had wanted to ask the hotel people about rainfall in recent months, but someone might remember the question later, so he decided not to risk it. The editors of The Annotated Holmes had put the Grimpen Mire west of Moretonhampstead, about three miles north of the village of Widecombe in the Moor, fabled in the folksong for its fair. And I’m going to get them stuck, thought Rowan sardonically. Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all.

As he marched the group past brilliantly sunlit flower beds and the lush greenery of the golf course, he found himself wishing for more suitable moorland weather. It should be a windy autumn night, with a sliver of pale moon occasionally visible through shrouds of rolling fog. Their steps across the steep fold of hills should have been punctuated by the baying of a gigantic hound. Instead he had to cany out his dark deed against a backdrop of green hills and blazing blue sky that suggested the opening scenes of The Sound of Music.

At the bottom of the sloping lawn was a wide walkway that encircled the manor. Leading off from it, a narrow trail wound its way into the woods. The group set off on the woodland trace, chattering happily about plans for tea and comparing room descriptions.

“There’s a fallen tree across the path!” Alice MacKenzie announced indignantly.

They were still within sight of the golf course.

“It probably fell during the windstorms last winter and no one’s bothered to clear it yet,” said Rowan. “It shouldn’t trouble us. I’ll climb over and help each of you across.”

With varying degrees of agility, each member of the party clambered over the trunk of the felled oak, assisted by the ever-patient Rowan Rover, who knew that he had to keep them busy and happy for another three miles at least before he could expect to find any dangerous patches of mire. As they trotted along the well-worn path beside a sparkling brook, Rowan pointed out wildflowers and marveled at the wonderfully summeriike weather they were enjoying. Privately, he considered a thermometer reading approaching body temperature an appalling condition for an uphill hike, but he reminded himself that Americans were accustomed to warmer weather.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit hot for a long walk?” panted Elizabeth MacPherson, echoing his thoughts. By this time the path had forked and they had chosen to follow the route that became a steep incline, angling toward the open moors. “I was just worried about Maud on account of her age, you know.”

With great deliberation, Rowan stopped and looked back at the rest of the party. Maud Marsh, a few yards behind them, was striding briskly along at the head of the pack, without even breathing heavily. The others were grouped together, a bit red-faced, and talking less than usual. Far in the rear, Susan Cohen glistened with sweat, her shoulders heaving as she breathed. “What is this?” she yelled out. “The Devonshire Death March?”

Rowan pretended not to have heard. “Walking the moors is one of my hobbies!” he called out encouragingly. “It’s good exercise and it clears the mind wonderfully.”

“Mine is certainly clear,” gasped Elizabeth. “I can think of nothing except the pain in my calf muscles.”

“Perhaps it would help if we put price tags on the fence posts,” snapped Rowan.

They tramped into a narrow dirt lane lined by blackberry thickets. Rowan graciously invited the group to stop for a moment, catch their breath, and sample the wild berries. He walked a few yards on to the top of a slope and scanned the grassy plain for the telltale bright green spots that signified patches of bog. He thought he spotted a few likely candidates to the northwest. Now would be a good time to leave the path and strike out across open country.

“How is everyone?” Rowan asked genially, surveying the party. “Enjoying your walk?”

“Nancy and I enjoy walks,” said Charles Warren, looking as fit as ever. “We do about seven miles a week.”

“Not uphill,” his wife retorted, fanning herself.

“Of course, nurses are used to doing a lot of walking, too. I just wish I’d brought proper running shoes,” said Kate Conway, looking sadly down at her espadrilles.

“Where’s the village?” Susan demanded. She was beginning to sag under the weight of her camera. “I thought you said the village was a mile away. We must be damn close to Scotland by now.”

The guide feigned surprise. “The village is in the other direction,” he informed her. “We veered off from that path shortly after we passed the fallen tree. I thought you wanted to take a walk up here on the moors. The views are breathtaking, aren’t they?”

“All I see is a bunch of pasture without any cows,” Susan grumbled. “You’ve seen one blade of grass, you’ve seen ’em all.”

“Tell you what,” said Rowan to the group. “Let’s get up out of this lane and walk across the moors. I’ll bet you can see for miles from that tor off to the right.” He took a short running start and scrambled up the bank, motioning for the others to follow him.

The Warrens and Kate Conway clambered after him. And one by one the others made their way up the grassy embankment.

“We’ll probably be in the guidebooks next year,” Elizabeth muttered to Emma Smith. “Party of American tourists dies of heat prostration on the Devonshire Death March. There’ll be a statue of Rowan Rover in Madame Tussaud’s Chamber of Horrors.”

Emma Smith giggled. “Well, hiking is good exercise. I’ve felt guilty about not keeping up with my running on this trip.”

Her mother nodded in agreement. “Emma and I also play tennis together twice a week. It certainly helps you keep your wind.”

Rowan Rover grabbed Susan’s hand and hauled her the last few feet up the bank. “Not tired, are you?” he asked. “Youngest member of the party and all.”

“I’ll make it,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Good. It’s wonderful for burning the calories, you know. Why don’t you walk up front with me?” he asked. “I notice you brought your camera. Perhaps you’d like to go on ahead and check for photo opportunities. It’s fairly level up here, as you can see.”

“Oh, all right,” said Susan, pushing sweat-dampened strands of hair away from her forehead. “I just hope we’re not going to go too far.”

Rowan gave her a dazzling smile of encouragement. With any luck at all, he thought, you won’t have to walk back.

Susan stalked ahead without any apparent enjoyment of the breathtaking scenery, while Rowan contrived to fall farther and farther behind. It had occurred to him that steering Susan toward the bog was of no use if there were a dozen people close behind, ready to pull her out again. He doubted if he could get them out of earshot, but he thought that it might help to split up the herd. Perhaps he could manage to get someone else stuck in a different patch of mire (preferably Elizabeth MacPherson); and while the others were rescuing her, he could go off and drown Susan.

He approached the stragglers, radiating concern for their welfare. “Is everyone all right here? Miriam? Alice? If anyone would like to go back to the hotel, it’s straight down the hill behind you.”

Miriam looked doubtfully at the long stretch of grassland rolling before them. She was wearing a heavy sweater and her face glistened with perspiration. She looked doubtfully at her daughter. “Do you want to keep going, Emma?”

Taking the cue, Emma said quickly, “No, I think we’ve had enough exercise for one afternoon. We’ll walk tomorrow morning when it’s cool, if you like, Mother. Alice, do you want to come back with us?”

“I suppose so,” said Alice. “I’m not much on hiking if there’s nowhere in particular to go.”

“Go back then,” the guide said soothingly. “We shan’t be long.” Seven to go, he thought, as he watched the three-some wend their way back across the meadow to the blackberry lane. A few moments later he sidled up to Charles and Nancy Warren, who were chatting with Martha Tabram. Feigning a perplexed expression, he said, “According to my guidebook, there is an ancient stone circle somewhere in this area. It is quite a beautiful ring of stones, set against imposing moorland scenery, and I’m sure you’d like to photograph it. Would you like to go off to the left and see if you can catch a glimpse of it. Susan is scouting in the other direction.”

Charles Warren looked at his wife. “That does sound like a good picture, doesn’t it, Nancy? Shall we go and look for it?”

Martha Tabram hesitated. “I seem to remember hearing somewhere that these moors could be dangerous. Are you sure it’s wise for us to separate?”

“Dangerous? Rubbish! Conan Doyle didn’t know what he was talking about. Hound of the Baskervilles notwithstanding, I assure you that not a single moor pony has ever been lost in the bogs here.” A Land Rover and a couple of Danish hikers, yes, but not a pony, he finished silently. “Off you go, then. If you find the stone circle, give us a shout, won’t you?” And it would have to be a very loud shout, Rowan reflected, because the circle he had described to them, the Nine Maidens, was a good ten miles away at Okehampton. He waved cheerily as the Warrens and Martha Tabram wandered away.

That left Maud Marsh, Kate Conway, Frances Coles, and Elizabeth MacPherson. He didn’t mind Maud or Frances because he fancied they’d be fairly useless in a quicksand crisis, but a trained nurse and a forensic anthropologist constituted a considerable nuisance for a wary assassin. He didn’t suppose he could get rid of them, though. Kate tended to dog his steps in a way that he might have found flattering had he not been otherwise preoccupied-and the MacPherson girl was determined to talk crime with him at every waking moment. He would have to divert them somehow. When the time came. If it came.

He scanned the moors for a sign of Susan, but she had disappeared between the fold of hills. Aside from the nattering of Kate and Frances, all was quiet. He could feel his scalp prickling, and a shiver of dread rippled down his spine. She would be walking closer and closer to the deadly green circle, not attending to where she was going-she never did-and suddenly, a lurch, a plunge, and it would be all over but the screaming. The viscous mire of Dartmoor would envelop her in molten earth and melt inexorably away from her thrusting feet, as she clawed for a freehold. Quicksand they called it, and, indeed, the end would come swiftly. There were worse ways to go. Rowan clenched his fists, clammy with sweat, and waited for the cry.

“Damn!” Susan’s voice, unmistakable with its flat Midwestern accent, floated over the moors. “Oh, damn it! Help me, somebody!”

For an instant they all froze. Rowan could see his companions glancing at each other, wondering what to do, and he forced himself to stand still, ignoring the reflexes that urged him to run toward the cry for help. He would have killed for a cigarette.

“It’s Susan,” said Kate Conway, with her usual knack for stating the obvious.

“She’s in trouble,” said Elizabeth MacPherson. Another rocket scientist.

Rowan modulated his voice by sheer willpower. “Oh, I expect not,” he managed to say. “Probably got a run in her nylons, knowing our Susan.”

Ignoring all the idle speculation, Maud Marsh was striding briskly forward in the direction of the cries for help. Rowan realized that it would look too suspicious if he ignored Susan altogether. The thing to do, he decided, was to direct the rescue operation in order to irrevocably botch it. Throw Susan a branch and then manage to let go of it, for example. He hurried toward the slope, determined now to be first on the scene, while the others trotted in his wake.

As he reached the edge of the incline, preparing to stagger down it, avoiding the dangerous mire, he nearly tripped over the kneeling figure of Susan Cohen, just below the crest of the slope. She was patting the short moor grass with both hands, cursing roundly, but distinctly unmuddied.

“Look out, damn it!” she snarled, peering up at him with one eye shut.

Rowan lurched to a standstill, waving his arms for balance and examining the surrounding turf for signs of quicksand. All seemed firm and dry: outcroppings of rock and scraggly gorse bushes dotted the hillside, but there were no ominous patches of emerald green.

Elizabeth, Frances, Kate, and Maud peered at them from the summit of the hill. “What is it, Susan?” Kate called out. “Did you sprain your ankle?”

“No!” yelled Susan. “Everybody stay back! I’ve lost a contact lens!”

For a quarter of an hour the six of them padded about the area on all fours, looking for the transparent lens, while Susan complained about the wind that blew dust in her face and caused her to lose the lens by rubbing the irritated eye. The Warrens and Martha Tabram drifted back to the group, announcing that they had found a hill with a view for miles in every direction, and there was no stone circle within sight. Rowan muttered something about modern vandals and continued to pat the heath with his fingertips. Finally, after everyone was thoroughly dusty from grubbing in the earth, and chilled by the evening wind at sunset, Susan herself found the offending object in the folds of her corduroy skirt, where-upon she announced that she’d had all the hiking that she could stand. As the weary troop straggled back across the moors toward the Manor House, a sore and bitter Rowan Rover looked earnestly for a pool of quicksand, with a view toward using it himself-but it had been a dry summer in Devon and the moors weren’t accepting any human sacrifices.

At nine that evening the Oak Room bar was empty except for the members of the mystery tour. Even Bernard had lingered after dinner, sipping a pint of bitter and listening to the general chat. Charles Warren was wedged on a small love seat between his wife and Martha Tabram, and the others occupied various armchairs, which they had pulled up in a circle round a coffee table. Susan, now restored to normal vision, wanted to compare the Manor’s restaurant to one in Minneapolis called Azur. Resolutely, Elizabeth MacPherson kept coming back to forensic anthropology and to murders in general, thus encouraging the few nontour patrons of the lounge to flee in a state of some anxiety. After half an hour of alternate monologues, a restful silence fell upon the group.

For once, it was Charles Warren who spoke up. “Talking about murders,” he remarked by way of introduction, “we called our youngest daughter this evening, and she gave us some news from the States. Seems there’s a mass murderer loose at the University of Florida.”

Immediately the group fell silent, and Rowan and Elizabeth looked like firehorses who’d just heard the alarm bell. “What sort of mass murderer?” asked Rowan, exhaling clouds of smoke.

“Sounds like another Bundy to me,” said Charles. “This past weekend he went on a rampage and killed four women students, I think, and one young man.”

“Young man?” echoed Elizabeth. “Oh! I suppose he was in the apartment with one of the women?”

“Right.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Collateral damage. He just happened to be in the way. I’d like to see the girls’ pictures, wouldn’t you, Rowan?”

“Only to verify that they look very much alike. They will, of course. Serial killers are very particular. Bundy liked brunettes with long, straight hair parted down the middle.”

Susan Cohen patted her blonde curls and laughed. “I guess I’m safe, then!”

“You are from Bundy,” said Elizabeth gravely. “So this guy killed five people over the weekend. They ought to have caught him by now.”

“They have,” said Charles. “Our daughter said they’d arrested an eighteen-year-old student on suspicion.”

“It’s not him,” said Elizabeth and Rowan together. Elizabeth nodded toward the guide, inviting him to explain.

“He’s too young,” said Rowan, gesturing with his whiskey glass. “Serial killers may start as young as eighteen, but I cannot believe that this is that murderer’s first killing spree. Doing away with five people in two days sounds very much like the fugue state one associates with the end of a serial killer’s career. To use our previous example, Bundy did just such a multiple crime just before he was caught. Psychologists think they do it subconsciously wanting to be caught.”

“If I were the Florida police,” said Elizabeth, “I’d be looking for a trail of missing women or unsolved crimes involving victims who resembled these latest murdered girls. Whoever did this had to work up to this kill spree.”

“Murdered women!” said Alice with a disapproving frown. “Always women! Aren’t there any female serial killers?”

Rowan Rover shrugged. “Little old lady poisoners. But they kill boyfriends or family members. I’d hardly classify them as sex crimes.”

Susan Cohen giggled. “What we need for true equality is a female serial killer!”

Elizabeth MacPherson looked thoughtful. “I suppose the closest we get to it is child killing, wouldn’t you say, Rowan?”

“As far as I know,” he agreed. “Although, nothing is too bizarre these days. Somewhere in New Jersey there may be a woman karate expert picking up unsuspecting male hitchhikers and doing them in on stretches of lonely road. I find it hard to imagine, though. Yes, I should say that child killing is the closest female equivalent to the Bundys of this world. Were you, by any chance, thinking of Constance Kent?”

“I suppose I was,” said Elizabeth.

“Interesting. So you think she did it?”

“All right,” said Frances Coles, holding up her hand. “Time out. If you’re going to talk shop, you might as well let us in on it. Who was Constance Kent?”

Rowan Rover looked pensively into his empty glass. “I wonder if I might have another double Scotch first?”

Kate Conway volunteered to stand him a drink in exchange for the story, and after she had supplied him with a fresh glass, he settled back in the leather wingchair and began the tale.

“We shall be traveling within a few miles of her house,” he said. “She lived in a large house near Rode, a few miles south of Bath. This was in 1860. The murder occurred in that year-when Constance was sixteen. Her father was a factory inspector, but he insisted on living extravagantly, so that the family was always hard-up for money. I think Kent had five children by his first wife. After her death, he married the pretty young governess, Mary Pratt, and they proceeded to have several more children, including a son, Francis Savile Kent, born in 1856. In 1860 the boy was found with his throat cut in an outbuilding on the Kent property. The actual cause of death, though, was suffocation.”

“How could they tell that?” asked Frances.

“From the bleeding,” said Kate Conway absently. “The patient bleeds very little if cuts are made postmortem, because the heart has already ceased to pump the blood.”

Rowan smiled approvingly. “Thank you, Nurse Conway.”

“Why would anyone cut the throat of a dead person?” Frances persisted.

“To make it look like a stranger had done it, I expect,” said Kate.

“That was the police theory, certainly,” said Rowan. “But which member of the household did it? The crime was investigated at length by the local police, and the victim’s half sister Constance Kent was charged with the murder, but she was released for lack of evidence. Five years later, she astonished everyone by going to the police of her own accord and confessing to the murder of Francis Kent.”

“There!” said Elizabeth triumphantly. “You admit it. She confessed!”

“Oh, yes, she confessed,” Rowan agreed. “Whether or not she did it is another matter.”

“Oh, good! A real life murder mystery!” said Frances Coles. “Who do you think did it?”

“Before we discuss if further, I need to read up on the case again. I know the general facts, but I’m not well-informed enough to argue about it. Ask me again tomorrow night in St. Ives. I’ll try to have another look at a crime book by then. Perhaps we could discuss more familiar ones in the meantime.”

Martha Tabram stifled a yawn. “Not I,” she said. “It’s nearly ten o’clock. Good night all.”

Emma Smith and her mother also bade them a hasty farewell, saying that they wanted to do some walking in the early morning. Susan announced that there was a good television program coming on at ten and she wanted to watch it. The others settled back to hear more tales of crime.

After Elizabeth and Rowan had talked shop-through two more double Scotches-about the moors murderers, the notorious Krays, and other favorite cases, the group fell silent. No one else was very keen on true crime; they simply liked a genteel whodunit to pass the time.

Finally Maud Marsh said quietly, “Have either of you ever heard of a case concerning a Chinese gentleman named Mr. Miao?”

“Derwentwater,” said Elizabeth MacPherson, who indexed her facts geographically.

“Yes,” said Rowan, straining to recall the case. “I remember that it was the Lake District, wasn’t it? Borrowdale, I think, in the late 1920s.” He turned to Maud. “Yes, what about it?”

“What happened?” she asked simply. Her face bore a look of concern that people did not usually have when casually discussing sensational crimes.

“He murdered his wife,” said Elizabeth, who had recently read an account of the case. (The one good thing about learning in binges is that all your information is fresh for as long as you care about it.) “She was Chinese, too. Not very pretty, judging from her photograph.”

“They were on their honeymoon, weren’t they?” said Rowan. “Staying at the hotel in Borrowdale. But they weren’t from England.”

“There was an American connection,” said Elizabeth. “I think they sailed from New York.”

“He was a law student at Loyola in Chicago,” said Maud Marsh.

They stared at her. “That’s not in the books,” said Elizabeth.

“I knew him. He rented a room from my family in Chicago when I was a young girl. He was a very nice man. Later I heard that he was involved in a murder case, and I always wondered about the details. It didn’t seem possible.”

“What doesn’t seem possible,” said Rowan wonderingly, “is that I am sitting here talking to someone who knew a murderer who was executed in 1928. Amazing!”

“What was he like?” asked Elizabeth. She had known several murderers herself, but their cases seemed hardly sensational enough to make crime history. Mr. Miao, on the other hand, was a legend.

“He was very quiet,” said Maud, summoning up her memories from half a century past. She looked a bit ghostlike herself in the plain white dress that matched the silver of her hair. Her hands twisted and untwisted in her lap as she spoke. “He came from a good family in Shanghai. I believe he already had a law degree from a university in China. He studied a great deal and he was always very nice to me. I never met his wife. Are you sure he killed her?”

“They went out for a walk,” said Elizabeth, looking up at the ceiling as she tried to visualize her book of criminal history. “A couple of hours later, he came back, but she didn’t. He told another guest at the hotel that his wife had gone to town to shop. When she hadn’t returned by eight o’clock, the hotel proprietress became concerned; but apparently Mr. Miao wasn’t worried that she had been gone shopping for so long.”

“That’s a little odd, surely, for a newlywed,” Maud conceded.

“Unless he were married to Elizabeth here,” Rowan grunted.

“I don’t shop that much! Anyhow, what happened then? A farmer found the body by a pool of water in the woods. She had been strangled with a blind cord and her clothing was torn. Also her rings were missing.”

“Rape?” said Maud. “That doesn’t sound like something a husband would have done.”

Rowan, thinking of previous wives, opened his mouth and closed it again. He took another sip of Scotch. “As I recall, the physical evidence incriminated him, didn’t it? Didn’t the blind cord match the kind used in the hotel?”

“Yes,” said Elizabeth. “I remember that. And they found her missing rings hidden among his things.”

Maud sighed. “How very sad. That does seem to settle it. I only wondered because of something that happened in Chicago, while he was staying with us. I remember that some Chinese men came to see him one afternoon. They were standing in the hallway, speaking very angrily at Mr. Miao in Chinese. And when I saw him later he had cuts and bruises on his face. I asked him who the men were, and he said that they were from-I think he said a rival family. Anyway, they wanted him to do something that he didn’t want to do. He seemed very afraid of them.”

“A tong!” muttered Rowan Rover. “Chinese gangsters in America. Of course you had them in Chicago! I wonder how he got mixed up with them?”

“I don’t know,” said Maud. “I never saw them again, and he didn’t discuss it with my parents. But when I heard that his wife had been murdered, I wondered if those people had somehow followed him to England and killed his bride. Maybe they didn’t want him to marry her.”

Elizabeth looked uneasy. “The defense did call witnesses who stated that they had seen Oriental men in the area that day.”

Rowan shook his head. “Japanese tourists? Korean immigrants? They never found those mysterious Orientals, did they? I think his attorney was grasping at straws.”

“He was such a gentle man, though,” said Maud. “What was his motive supposed to be?”

“They never really gave one,” said Elizabeth. “The theories were that he killed her for her money or because he learned that she couldn’t have children. I think in those days no one expected to understand the motivations of a Chinese mind.”

Maud looked thoughtful. “I wonder if they forced him to kill her, or else… or else, what? I don’t know.”

“I can’t even guess what his motive was,” said Rowan. “But considering how unconcerned he was about her disappearance, we have to assume that he knew she was dead. The fact that her missing rings were found among his possessions is strong evidence that he did it. Had I been on the jury, I’d have found him guilty.”

“And he was hanged?”

“Yes. At Strangeways in Manchester, I expect,” said Rowan. “We’ll be going past another famous prison tomorrow, incidentally. Dartmoor.”

“I want to see that!” said Elizabeth. But she was a bit more subdued about crime than usual. It was difficult to know what to say to someone who mourned for a murderer. Odd how unusual even the most ordinary people could turn out to be.

She fell asleep that night thinking of Constance Kent in a bloodstained nightdress standing over the body of her brother.

“How many were going to St. Ives?”

– OLD ENGLISH RIDDLE