Missing Susan (3 page)

“I thought so,” grunted the businessman. “With your ex-wives, your boat, and your paternal obligations, you seemed to be a good prospect for the job I have in mind. Also you’re an expert on murder.”

“You want me as a consultant for an American film?” guessed Rowan hopefully.

“No. Something much more important, Mr. Rover. My niece is going to be one of the people on your September murder tour. I want you to kill her.”

EDINBURGH

E
LIZABETH
M
AC
P
HERSON
(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.

THE THAMES

IN THE TINY
sleeping quarters of the boat
Morvoren
, beneath the sheet of polythene that substituted for the missing part of the coach roof, the captain was preparing to abandon ship. His suitcase lay open on the bunk, and various items of apparel were strewn about on every flat surface, awaiting consideration by their distracted owner, who seemed inclined to fill up his case with books instead of clothing.

Rowan Rover looked reproachfully at his selection of summer trousers as if holding the garments personally responsible for their unfashionable condition. His late employment in tropical Sri Lanka had left him with a superfluity of lightweight trousers, which, given the few weeks’ wear per annum allowed by the English climate, threatened to outlast the millennium. They had been purchased at that unfortunate period in the history of couture when flared trousers were in fashion, and the ridiculousness of this bygone splendor no doubt contributed to their dogged indestructibility. He
could
have consigned them to the rubbish bin, and invested in more elegantly tailored apparel, but since financially and philosophically he could not bring himself to dispose of usable clothing, he had attempted to improve their appearance by
narrowing the trouser legs himself, an act he undertook with more zeal than skill. Thus, he occasionally appeared to have one leg thicker than the other.

The trousers were in need of other types of alteration as well, because, as the years wore on, his girth increased, causing the trousers’ zippers to slip inexorably out of a securely closed position. After one disastrous attempt at trouser-widening, resulting in the complete destruction of the garment, he had given up the prospect of further do-it-yourself tailoring, and he now relied on safety pins inserted in the fly below the desired level of the zipper to protect him from embarrassing moments. He liked to think that no one noticed these little economies.

Rowan Rover selected two pairs of trousers, tan and black, and folded them carefully at the bottom of the suitcase, tossing on top of them as many shirts and undergarments as would fit without disturbing his cache of books: a British Heritage guidebook of Britain, a road atlas, a volume of English folklore, and a pocket encyclopedia of true crime.

The Murder Mystery Tour of Southern England would begin tomorrow, September 5, when he was scheduled to meet his charges—and the coach and driver—at Gatwick. The weather promised to be perfect. The English summer had been unseasonably warm (if this be global warming, make the most of it, he thought, paraphrasing an early American patriot), and current forecasts promised sunshine and balmy breezes for the next few weeks. Hence the need for his tropical wardrobe. In case the weather forecast was as inaccurate as usual, he would take sweaters.

He glanced at the list of people signed up for the tour: a dozen Americans, mostly from the West Coast, and one Scotswoman named MacPherson, from Edinburgh. It was the third name on the list that gave him pause: Susan.

His encounter with Mr. Kosminski (whom he still thought of as The Businessman) on the Ripper tour last March had
faded in his memory to the insubstantiality of a bad dream. He had mentioned it to no one.

He remembered sitting in the Aldgate pub, making polite after-tour chitchat with the American, thinking he was about to be invited to lecture at some university, when, in the middle of his sip of Scotch, the man had plumped out his request: that Rowan Rover should murder his niece on the September mystery tour.

Rowan’s initial reply had been a coughing fit, as a swallow of Glenlivet took a wrong turn down his throat in the tension of the moment.

Aaron Kosminski smiled, while endeavoring to look concerned. “Can I get you a glass of water?” he asked pleasantly.