Missing Susan (14 page)

“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?”

EXETER

T
HE 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 scouting 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!”

They turned to stare at a monocled man in a tuxedo, who had been introduced to them as the baron, director of the vampire film. He was berating a mousy old woman in rimless glasses and a shapeless brown dress. Apparently the woman was the company secretary, and the baron had caught her going through his desk. Alice MacKenzie dutifully made notes of the accusations. In a few minutes the scene was over and a horse-faced woman in a tweed suit approached them, shaking her head. “Those two will bear watching,” she said.

“She’s a plant,” muttered Susan Cohen, when the woman was out of earshot. “Too Miss Marple to be real. She’s probably going to be the troupe’s detective.”

“What about that tall blond man by the door?” asked
Maud Marsh, looking elegant in a short dress of white satin. “He looks rather theatrical.”

“I heard him talking to the secretary,” said Nancy Warren. “He says he’s playing the leading man in the film.”

Martha Tabram, coolly elegant in a two-piece outfit of green silk, sipped her wine and eyed the door. “Do you suppose they’ll try to keep us in the hotel all weekend with this foolishness?” she asked. “I want to see Exeter again.”

“I checked my schedule,” Elizabeth told her. “It says that after this we’re free until one o’clock tomorrow, when the baron is rehearsing a scene with his actors. Tomorrow morning our group is supposed to have a tour of the city at ten with one of Exeter’s volunteer guides.”

“Good,” smiled Martha. “I may not return for the rehearsal.”

“You might miss a murder,” Nancy warned her. “But it is tempting to shop, isn’t it?”

“It certainly is,” said Elizabeth. “Now that we haven’t got Rowan Rover barking at our heels every time we stop at a postcard rack.”

The escape plans were interrupted by a stir in the crowd near the punch bowl. The buzz of voices suddenly fell silent. People began to back away from the baron’s mousy little secretary, who was coughing violently into her handkerchief. Thirty seconds later she dropped her wineglass and crumpled gracefully to the floor, unconscious. Kate Conway, her nurse’s instincts aroused, rushed to the body, but the baron waved her back. On cue, her fellow actors flocked around her. She was carried from the room, while the baron and his leading lady expressed their shock and dismay to the rest of the party.

The Snoop Sister in the tweed suit reappeared. Her eyes sparkled with interest. “I am Miss Eylesbarrow,” she told them. “And I must say I find this very suspicious indeed! Did any of you see anyone tampering with that lady’s drink?”

The mystery group members admitted that they hadn’t been paying attention.

“Oh, but you must watch everyone very carefully!” the woman chided them. “You can’t trust anyone, you know!”

“I hope she did it,” muttered Elizabeth, as the woman walked away.

“Not a hope,” said Susan Cohen. “When it’s time to reveal the killer, she’ll run the confrontation scene. But she’s much too brash. They need somebody who’s gracious and charming to be the amateur sleuth.”

“Like Angela Lansbury on
Murder She Wrote?”
asked Kate.

Susan shook her head. “I was thinking more of Charlotte MacLeod.”

Maud Marsh was ready to try her hand at solving the case. “What do you suppose she was killed with?” she asked the others. “Poison in the drink?”

“So they would have us believe,” said Elizabeth. “We mustn’t forget that it’s 1928.”

“This has been done in a lot of books,” said Susan, with the air of one beginning a lecture. “There’s
The Mirror Cracked
, and
Murder in Three Acts.
Of course, both those murders were done the same way …”