Missing Susan

CHAPTER 2

EDINBURGH

ELIZABETH MACPHERSON (now Mrs. Cameron Dawson and newly endowed with a Ph.D. that she would brandish at the slightest provocation) had reached that post-honeymoon stage of matrimony when a young woman’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of murder.

“What do you mean you’ll be gone six weeks?” she demanded of her hitherto satisfactory husband.

“Well, it was something I agreed to in June before our rather”-Cameron coughed delicately-“hasty marriage was decided upon. It didn’t seem sporting to back out on my hosts when they’d got it all settled. So, barring serious objections or obstacles from you-your imminent death from tuberculosis comes to mind-I said that I would go.”

“That seems reasonable,” Elizabeth agreed, remembering somewhat guiltily her insistence on advancing the wedding date so that she could attend the Queen’s Edinburgh Garden Party. “But when you said you were going, did you mean alone?”

“Well, hardly that,” said Cameron with that little laugh one gives to assure tigers that one is completely inedible. “There will be a whole boatload of other marine biologists, but since this tracking business is rather a specialty of mine, and because of that journal article I wrote, they very kindly asked me-”

“It won’t work,” said Elizabeth, setting aside the copy of British Heritage that had, till now, been claiming her attention. “You are hoping to burble on in this fashion for hours until I fall asleep or lose interest in the discussion entirely, aren’t you?”

“Certainly not.” Cameron glanced at his watch, then toward the television. “Although I should point out that Spitting Image comes on in ten minutes.”

“You’re sure they have no room for a deckhand, or fish cleaner, or something? Because I haven’t anything to do just now-”

“I know,” said Cameron. “But there’s not a lot of space on the boat, and they’ve restricted the group to scientists. We’ll even do our own cooking.”

Elizabeth sighed. “Well, it was worth a try. This is what comes of having a two-career marriage. You have to go chasing sea lions all over the Atlantic, and I’m stuck at home cutting up dead bodies. Or I would be, if anyone would let me.”

“People will get nervous if you go around saying things like that,” Cameron told her. “Remember that Edinburgh was the home of those renowned body snatchers Burke and Hare.”

“They were amateurs,” said Elizabeth. “I am a forensic anthropologist. They could be self-employed. I can’t. Still, I have applied to all the appropriate potential employers. I suppose something will turn up eventually.”

There didn’t seem to be a correct response to this, since Cameron knew very well the calamity that would require the services of a few extra specialists in corpse identification. He smiled encouragingly to show sympathy with his wife’s professional frustration.

She sighed again. “So I’m to be stuck at home like Penelope while my lord and master sails the high seas.”

“Yes,” said Cameron. “Although I hope to be back nine years and eleven months sooner than Ulysses. And you must admit that Edinburgh in September is an alluring place to be stuck in.”

He looked around at the old-fashioned flat in Edinburgh’s New Town (which was built by Robert Hutchinson in 1819). On short notice Cameron’s brother Ian, with his real estate connections, had managed to find this dwelling for the newlyweds to sublet. It belonged to a retired barrister who was spending a year abroad. Elizabeth, who refused to live in anything that had been built after the Boer War, loved the high-ceilinged rooms, with their molded ceilings, and the fireplace she insisted was an Adam. She settled down happily amid the chintz and polished oak, and spent much of the early evening composing thank-you notes to those who sent belated wedding presents by sea mail. They were only just arriving, and Elizabeth was becoming a skilled diplomat, refraining from explaining the AC/DC electrical inconsistency to toaster givers, and managing not to write: “Thank you very much indeed for the set of carving knives. I have decided to use them only at home.” Cameron assured her that his elderly cousin, a minister in Aberdeen, would find the letter most unfunny, so she settled for a more conventional bride’s reply, leaving forensic anthropology out of it.

The only thorn in all this wedded bliss was that Elizabeth had not yet managed to find a job, and she was not keen on being the only housewife in the building with a doctorate in anthropology. She realized that a specialized subject such as hers made it more difficult to find employment than, say, a cocktail waitress, but she had not given up hope. Cameron, meanwhile, was back at his old job, happily communing with mammalian sea creatures, and using his free time to go sightseeing with his restless bride.

“You’re right,” she said, flipping idly through her magazine. “Edinburgh isn’t a bad place to be stuck in at all. It’s wonderful after the festival closes and all the bloody tourists go home, but after all, I’ve seen most of it. Especially”-she added with a mischievous smile-“Halfords.” Cameron’s fondness for auto parts stores was a family joke. “Anyway, why should I stay in Edinburgh? We don’t even have any plants to water.”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” said Cameron. “Where would you like to go?”

Elizabeth was examining the advertisements in the back of British Heritage. “Murder?” she said aloud.

Oh no, thought Cameron. She’s going to Ireland.

She held the magazine closer to the light. “Listen to this: ‘A murder mystery tour of the south of England. Why bother with old churches and rose gardens when the game is afoot, Watson? Visit all the sites dear to a crime-lover’s heart: the scene of a king’s murder in the New Forest! Daphne DuMaurier’s Jamaica Inn, an ancient smugglers’ haven! See the infamous Dartmoor Prison!’ That sounds wonderful! Don’t you think so?”

“Let’s hear the one about the rose gardens,” said Cameron.

Elizabeth made a face at him. “Only if you’ll promise to go seal hunting in the Commonwealth Pool.”

Cameron took the magazine and read the advertisement carefully. “It seems all right,” he said with limited conviction. “Reputable company; interesting stops; decent accommodations. I don’t see what trouble you could get into.” He sighed. “Though you always manage somehow.”

“But this is a tour,” Elizabeth reminded him. “It’s like being on a leash.”

“True. And you’ll probably be traveling with two dozen blue-haired Boston matrons.”

Elizabeth’s eyes danced. “But I’ll be visiting crime scenes!”

“A century after the fact. Perhaps it will be fun. Is Jack the Ripper on the agenda?” He studied the itinerary. “Yes, last thing, apparently. I’m beginning to wish I could go with you.”

“I wish you could, too,” said Elizabeth. “But I’ll take lots of pictures. And if I find any really wonderful places, we can go together later.” She held out her hand for the magazine. “Let me have it back so I can get the address. I’m going to send a deposit right away.”

“So you don’t mind my going off on the seal expedition?”

“What?” said Elizabeth, diligently copying the postal code. “No. Poor you. It will probably rain the entire time you’re out there. Whereas I shall be on the English Riviera.”

Cameron turned up the volume of the television to catch the beginning of Spitting Image. I suppose Jack the Ripper can’t be all bad, he thought to himself. I have a feeling that he just saved my life.