Sharyn McCrumb - Missing Susan

“Fiberglass statue in Exeter,” said Alice MacKenzie.

“People have been remembered for less,” said Rowan without missing a beat. “Anyhow, Simnel was defeated, and the viscount conveniently disappeared. Otherwise, he’d have been executed. Apparently, he was concealed in a secret room here at Minster Lovell, but unluckily for him, the one servant who knew his whereabouts died suddenly, and Viscount Francis was never found. His bones were finally discovered two hundred years later.”

“And after he meets the Gyrth’s heir in the book, Albert Campion has to protect this gold cup that has been hidden in the house since ancient times-”

Rowan stopped and looked at her. “What did you say?”

Susan repeated her summary of the Margery Allingham plot, in which the Gyrth family must retain and display an ancient golden cup of mystic significance in order to keep their lands.

When she had wound down, the guide smiled. “Well, Susan,” he said, “at last I am able to contribute something in your area of interest. Apparently your mystery author based her tale on the tradition of a house called Nanteos, near Capel Seion in Wales. Until recently its owners displayed an ancient wooden cup, said to possess miraculous healing powers. Now do be quiet.”

Susan opened her mouth and shut it again.

“What happened to the viscount of Minster Lovell?” asked Frances Coles quickly.

“I’m afraid he starved to death in his hiding place.”

“And where is the secret room?” asked Charles, fingering his camera lens.

“I’ve no idea,” Rowan replied. “There isn’t enough left of the building to tell us, either.”

“Too bad,” said Elizabeth, eyeing the still-prattling Susan.

“Yes, isn’t it?” said Rowan.

As they drove through Cumnor that afternoon, Elizabeth scoured the landscape for a sign of stately ruins-an old gatepost, perhaps, or a lone chimney-but Amy Robsart’s residence had apparently been swallowed up by modern developments, and she could find no trace of the scene of the crime. Her disappointment was short-lived, however, for twenty minutes later Bernard announced, somewhat unnecessarily, that they had arrived in Oxford.

He navigated the busy streets, clogged with rush hour traffic, and set them down in Beaumont Street, at the door of the Randolph Hotel. Susan was rattling on about Colin Dexter and someone called Inspector Morse, but everyone contrived to ignore her. Rowan drowned her out, explaining that the neo-Gothic hotel was built in 1864 and was named after Dr. Francis Randolph, a principal of Merton College. “In the Spires Restaurant, you will find the coats of arms of all the colleges,” he told them. “After I check you in, you are at liberty until tomorrow morning. I’ll take you on a formal tour tomorrow, but do go out exploring on your own this afternoon. The shops are open,” he added wickedly.

Twenty minutes later, as he pretended to study the notice board in the hall next to the lobby, Rowan saw most of the tour group troop out of the hotel, chattering among themselves. Only the Warrens had not departed, which did not affect his plan in the least. Their whereabouts did not concern him. The important consideration was that Susan was gone, and with only four days left until the end of the tour, he could not afford to tarry any longer.

When the group disappeared from sight, Rowan strolled up to the registration desk and intoned in an impeccable Oxonian drawl, “I say, I wonder if you remember me from a quarter of an hour ago? Guide on the tour that checked in? One of the young ladies left her purse in the coach, and I’d like to put it in her room, if I may. I know you have bellmen who generally fetch and carry, but in this case I’d rather do it personally. The purse contains the young lady’s passport, you know, and a bit of cash. They will do it, these tourists. So careless. If I could just have the passkey to Miss Cohen’s room, I’ll pop right in with it and bring the key straight back.” His smile was dazzling. “Thank you so much.”

Fortunately the timid young thing at the desk did not notice that the guide was not carrying the aforementioned purse as he dashed off upstairs with the key to Room 307. He was, instead, carrying a screwdriver and a pair of needle-nosed pliers, but they were concealed in the pocket of his tweed jacket, well out of sight. Rowan had spent the weekend at home devising alternate, ever more bizarre and risky schemes for dispensing with Susan Cohen. He had returned to the tour, armed with various devices to implement those schemes-and a renewed determination to finish the task once and for all. A newly arrived stack of demands for payment and invective from yet another ex-wife had fueled this latest resolve to complete the contract-and thus to extricate himself from financial ruin.

As he hurried upstairs, he scarcely noticed the churchlike windows and the ornate ceiling designs above the Randolph’s main staircase. His mind was focused on the task at hand. God knows it will need concentration , he thought. Electronics is hardly my forte. He stopped in front of Room 307 and looked up and down the hall to make sure that no one else was lingering. Satisfied that he was unobserved, he slipped the key into the lock and let himself into the room. It was a small, nondescript single room with a view of an alley. The private bath was nearly half the size of the room itself. Barely glancing at the luggage still piled in the corner, Rowan took out his tools and headed for the bathroom. The light fixture over the sink , he decided. It’s the only thing she’ll be sure to touch. Carefully, he reached up and unscrewed the protective cover over the light. After several minutes’ tinkering with the wires, he was satisfied that he had made the correct modifications. Hurriedly he replaced the metal cover, wiped his fingerprints off everything with a hand towel, and left the room. Once downstairs, he waited until the clerk was talking on the telephone, with her back to him, before he strode over and placed the key on the counter. He was gone before she turned around. Perhaps she wouldn’t remember him at all, he thought-with more hope than conviction. Sighing in relief to have it over with, Rowan Rover wandered away in search of Chapters Cocktail Bar, where he would await further developments in a haze of cigarette smoke and double Scotches.

It was nearly six o’clock before the light faded and the shops closed, driving all the stragglers back to the safety of the hotel to plan their evening’s entertainment. Elizabeth MacPherson had met Kate Conway on Broad Street, in a gift shop specializing in Oxford sweatshirts, and they walked back to the hotel together.

“Maud went to Evensong with Alice MacKenzie and Frances Coles,” Kate told her. “Martha is seeing a friend from Oxford this evening, and Susan is still shopping.” She giggled. “You know that beautiful navy-blue coat of Martha’s? I saw Susan buying one just like it at Laura Ashley. She’ll probably wear it, too. I wonder what Martha will think of that.”

“Plenty, but she’s too well-bred to say anything,” said Elizabeth. “Dinner is out of our own pocket tonight, I suppose?”

Kate nodded. “Do you think Rowan would like to join us?”

“We could ask him. What time are you planning to go out?”

“In about an hour,” said Kate, glancing at her watch. “Shall I come and get you when we’re ready to leave?”

“Yes, do. I’m in Room 307.” She made a face. “Susan, being her usual impossible self, insisted that we change rooms because there’s a light outside her window that she was sure would disturb her sleep.”

Kate wrote the number on the back of the sweatshirt bag. “Okay, 307. Got it. I’ll see you around seven. Where do you suppose Rowan is?”