Sharyn McCrumb - Missing Susan

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!”