Sharyn McCrumb - Missing Susan

“I’d be tempted to try that one,” said Alice, casting a baleful glance in Susan’s direction.

“Look out,” said Rowan lightly. “You might get what you wish for at the shrine of the goddess.”

As they proceeded into the series of rooms containing the various bathing pools, the guide took care to be close to Susan Cohen, so that he could make the most of any chance that might arise. The Great Bath was now restored and open to the outdoors, some two stories above it, but the other rooms in the complex were enclosed and lit only by the faint strains of sunlight from without. Another group of tourists had proceeded into the baths just ahead of them, but they were farther along in the tour. A dark-haired young man, probably a college student, introduced himself as Nigel, their guide. Apparently, the mystery tourists would be taken round by themselves.

It must look like an accident , Rowan reminded himself. She tripped, hit her head on the stone, and she fell unconscious into the pool and drowned. Alas, none of us missed her until it was too late. Of course he could not maintain his running commentary during the tour, but fortunately this was not necessary. Nigel was nattering away nineteen to the dozen about the plumbing, the drains, the bathing rituals, and all sorts of other diverting things that Rowan might otherwise have listened to. He contrived to fall behind the rest of the party, who obligingly crowded around Nigel, enthralled by his command of water trivia.

Rowan bided his time through the dry east baths, the splendid open air Great Bath, and at last to the dark and inviting west bath, where he was determined to make his move. He let the others go in ahead of him, and then slipped in quietly to the back of the group, discerning a shadowy figure of the right size and shape to be Susan. Mustn’t do it now , he thought. She’d cry out. He leaned over and whispered, “Wait here a moment.”

He could just make out the nod of her head in the gloom. He held his breath for what seemed like hours until Nigel finished his spiel and the rest of the party turned a corner and disappeared from view. Then with a great sigh of determination, the would-be murderer put his hands on his victim’s shoulders, ready to push her into the pool and hold her head under the murky water.

She spun round at once, and he found himself looking into the shining Bambi-lashed eyes of Kate Conway. “Oh, Rowan!” she sighed, with a trace of a giggle in her voice. She threw her arms around him. “But what if somebody sees us?”

As quickly and gently as he possibly could, Rowan disengaged himself from the fervent embrace. At any other time a nubile and willing nurse would be more than he could resist, but just now his mind was on murder. “You’re quite right,” he murmured. “Someone might see us. Some other time perhaps.”

“Of course, I’m rooming with Maud,” she sighed. “But I suppose there’s always your room.”

“And I would like a shot, you know,” said Rowan, improvising madly. “Except for my vow.”

“Your vow?” echoed Kate.

“Yes. Pesky old thing.” He was thinking furiously, enveloped in the scents of her duty-free perfume and the Francis Hotel complimentary shampoo. “I’ve sworn to remain celibate until Margaret Thatcher is no longer prime minister.”

In the dimness, he could see Kate’s bewildered face. “But I thought she was already married.”

Rowan shuddered at the implication of that. “No, dear,” he said gently. “It’s not Mrs. Thatcher I’m waiting for. This is for political reasons. A protest. Like fasting.”

“Oh,” she said. “But then why did you-”

“An unfortunate lapse,” he assured her. “Lost my head. Please pretend it never happened.”

“Well, okay,” said Kate, shrugging. “I guess we’d better find the others. I want to try some of the spring water.”

Rowan motioned for her to go first. “The others are in the pump room, no doubt hearing how English mineral water compares to Minnesota’s shining big sea waters.”

The fact that he was quite correct in this prediction did nothing to improve his state of mind.

That afternoon Elizabeth MacPherson and Susan Cohen spent an hour looking for Bath’s famous Pulteney Bridge before discovering that they were standing on it. Their hotel brochure did not offer a photo of the bridge, but described it in the text as Florentine style, a term that left them completely baffled.

“With spinach?” suggested Susan.

After determining the whereabouts of the bridge (beneath their feet), they decided that it must mean: built up with shops on each side so that it looks like an ordinary street instead of like a bridge. Still it had some interesting stamp, coin, and antique shops perched over the river, and they spent several hours acquiring more goods than their luggage would accommodate.

“This is such fun,” said Susan, gazing admiringly at her parcels. “If I were back in Minneapolis, Uncle Aaron would be trying to lecture me on mutual funds and treasury bonds and all that boring stuff. And he’s mad because I sold my stock in the business to some very nice Japanese businessmen.” She giggled. “I told Uncle Aaron, ‘If you want me to invest my money in the company, you’d better start publishing thrillers.’ ”

“I take it you two don’t get along,” said Elizabeth.

“I don’t think Uncle Aaron likes me much. He likes making money, but he doesn’t know how to enjoy it. At family gatherings he always looks bored. All he ever gave me for my birthday was a savings bond. He’s my mother’s brother. She died when I was born, but in the pictures we have of her, she looks lovely and silly. I think Uncle Aaron likes his women to be pretty bubblebrains who let him make all the decisions.”

“Look the other way when you cross the street, Susan,” said Elizabeth, holding out a restraining hand as they dodged traffic to investigate another antique shop. “So why wouldn’t your uncle like you? You’re pretty.”

“Only recently,” Susan reminded her. “It’s too late to impress him. He’s had twenty years of ugly duckling me, and he’ll never see me any other way. And I definitely don’t let him make the decisions! But why should I care if he likes me? Thanks to Grandpa Benjie, I have as much money as he does! So what if I lose some of it by not putting it in stupid tax shelters or keeping it in stocks? Spending it is more fun. Anyway, I kind of enjoy annoying him by not putting it into the company.”

“Does the company need your stock?”

“Probably. They’re worried about a takeover or something. The business could get taken out of the family, apparently, and get a lot of longtime employees fired. I don’t listen. Anyway, who cares? Oh, look at that boot scraper shaped like a hedgehog! Isn’t it adorable? And it’s only fifty pounds!”

This combination of search and shopping took them until two o’clock, at which time Elizabeth, with a pang of guilt, remembered her quest for Constance Kent, and went off in search of a library, while Susan, armed with her charge card, disappeared into a bookstore to amass crime novels for her collection.

Elizabeth had little difficulty in locating the public library. Half an hour of browsing in the card catalogue yielded several crime volumes with titles like Victorian Murderesses. Further inquiry unearthed back issues of newspapers of that era for further study. The Trowbridge and North Wilts Advertiser , the Frome Times , and the Bath Chronicle all took an intense and parochial interest in their local tragedy. Elizabeth photocopied the articles for further study.