Elizabeth MacPherson 06 - Missing Susan Read online

  “Too bad,” said an American college boy. “It would have been awesome to get a picture of the pub sign. Maybe a T-shirt.”

  A British matron in tweeds gave him an icy glare. “How would you Yanks like a fast food restaurant named after Ted Bundy?” she demanded.

  During intermission in the Ten Bells, Rowan Rover had a double Scotch with a contingent of Manchester sightseers, and the talk inevitably turned to Murderers I Have Known. Rowan, who hadn’t known any, listened politely to the woman who lived two blocks from Myra Hindley and her friend, who claimed that the 1970s Yorkshire Ripper had gone to school with her second cousin Vivian.

  “Have you ever met a real killer, Mr. Rover?” asked the woman in the Penn State ski cap.

  The guide shook his head. “Modern murder doesn’t interest me much,” he said. “Especially not the mob sort of killing-for-hire. I prefer to study the nineteenth-century cases, when crimes were committed in style—by amateurs. The old murder tales have atmosphere and the trappings of tragedy. Today it’s all News of the World pathos. Besides, all these modern murderers of yours are failures, aren’t they?”

  The woman blinked. “Failures? What do you mean?”

  Rowan smiled with Scotch-fueled mirth. “They got caught. I think that we’ll never know who the truly interesting modern killers are. If they’re really good, they won’t be arrested. In fact, the best ones will make their killings look accidental so that we’ll never know they murdered anyone at all.”

  Through his glass, as he drained it, he saw the American businessman give him a nod—and the barest of smiles.

  The rest of the tour was uneventful. In Whites Row the gaggle of tourists had stood between the children’s wear shop and the multistory car park while Rowan Rover described the Ripper’s last and most terrible murder: the killing of Mary Ann Kelly in the no-longer-existing Dorset Street. His voice rose and fell with ominous intonation as he detailed the horrors of the Kelly death scene. Forgotten were the modern buildings and the drone of distant traffic. The listeners stood spellbound, peering inside a phantom, firelit hovel on Dorset Street, crimson with the evidence of the Ripper’s handiwork. Rowan Rover, who preferred not to let his attention dwell on the anatomical atrocity of the Kelly case, was on automatic pilot again. Next came the graffiti and the bloodstained apron stops, and then Mitre Square—not the last of the murders, but a geographically convenient place to end the tour, near the Aldgate tube station. Then would come the summing up, and the inevitable questions. Who was it, then? Who was Jack the Ripper?

  Rowan Rover dutifully presented the evidence, patiently explaining why the group’s favorite suspects were simply not on. (“Madam, the Duke of Clarence was in Scotland at the time of the murders. How do you suppose he managed the four-hundred-mile commute?”) Occasionally, though, he longed to alleviate his own boredom by announcing, “Oscar Wilde was Jack the Ripper! Let me tell you why!” Or Lewis Carroll. Or Ellen Terry. Anybody, really. He could trump up a case against practically anybody who was in London in 1888, and ninety percent of the tourists would depart convinced that whoever he chose was undoubtedly the murderer. But the habits of scholarship die hard; one does not lark about with one’s chosen subject.

  Every evening, Rowan resolved to denounce a new and improbable suspect, and every evening by the time he reached the final pub stop, he found himself telling the group the truth as best he knew it. He knew from experience that so many tourists were disappointed to have their pet theory dashed that he refrained from actually stating “This was the Ripper.” Instead, he outlined the most sensible theories, gave the evidence for each, and left the group to draw their own conclusions. Those who wanted further enlightenment were encouraged to purchase copies of Rowan Rover’s book Murders in Whitechapel, copies of which were kept for him in the Aldgate pub.

  This time he dismissed the temptation to fabricate without a moment’s consideration. The American businessman wanted to talk to him after the tour. He might be a movie producer planning a Ripper documentary. Surely such things paid well. Rowan Rover resolved to provide a memorable finale.

  As he ended the tour, a drizzle of rain began to fall, making the streets glisten, and chilling the tourists past caring whether Montague John Druitt had an alibi or Sir William Gull a motive. Some of them trooped off to the tube station; the rest followed their guide to the pub, where they bought him drinks, purchased his book, and insisted on his autographing it, while they chattered happily about themselves and their reasons for taking the tour. Through all this, the American businessman sat quietly in the corner, drinking a Bloody Mary, and listening without apparent interest. Rowan Rover held court with his customary charm, wistfully eyeing the blonde, and wishing that he could afford a life of simple lust. After a quarter of an hour, and two more double Scotches, the last of the tour group said their good-nights, and, London A-Z street directory in hand, they made their way back toward civilization.

  As the door closed behind the gaggle of departing sightseers, the American businessman picked up his drink and sat down beside Rowan Rover. “Interesting tour,” he said. “You do it quite well.”

  “Thank you,” said Rowan, attempting a modest smile. “I’ve often thought of doing a lecture tour in the States. I’m quite an authority on other nineteenth century crimes as well, you know.”

  The man nodded. “So I’m told. I believe you have been hired by British Heritage to lead a three-week murder tour of the south of England in September.”

  “Oh, are you interested in that?” asked Rowan, cursing himself for giving up a chance at the blonde. “Yes, I think it should be rather amusing. First-rate accommodations, of course, and lovely country. I suppose there are a few places left on the tour. I could tell you whom to contact, if you like.”

  The man seemed not to have heard him. He looked about to see if anyone was in earshot, but the other patrons of the pub seemed preoccupied with their own conversations. Thus reassured of the privacy of their discussion, he said quietly, “Mr. Rover, my name is Aaron Kosminski, and I have a business proposition for you. It will require some discretion on your part, though.”

  Rowan Rover endeavored to look as if the conversation was making sense to him. “Oh, yes?”

  “I have done a bit of checking up on you, and I know that you might not be averse to making some quick money. Say, fifty thousand dollars?”

  Rowan, who had guessed at the current dollar exchange rate and was multiplying furiously, nearly forgot to nod.

  “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.”

  “If you’ve got a nice fresh corpse, fetch him out!”

  —MARK TWAIN, Innocents Abroad

  CHAPTER 2

  EDINBURGH

  ELIZABETH MACPHERSON (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.

  “An Englishman thinks he is moral when he is only

  uncomfortable.”

  —GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

  CHAPTER 3

  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 ty
pes 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.