would be very easy then for her to purchase some arsenic, or even to steal some of his own private stock…” It was great fun to speculate. But he, Rowan Rover, had never had to buy any arsenic. Or to watch the death throes of the subsequent victim. Now, suddenly, he had to move from the theoretical to the practical-and to accomplish the task before ten potential witnesses, all of them avowed crime buffs. Was he mad?
He looked up to find that a large tour coach had pulled up alongside him. “Mr. Rover?” the driver inquired in a working-class twang. “Mystery tour?”
Rowan took a long drag on his cigarette. “Right,” he wheezed. “They’re just around the corner.”
“Climb aboard, then, and we’ll go and get them.”
Rowan Rover hesitated. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Not me, mate. But if you’re ferrying about a load of American ladies, there’s sure to be objections. Regular health nuts, some of them.” He was young and blond and he looked as if he should be running across a rugby field rather than driving a bus. He smiled again as Rowan Rover mounted the steps to the coach. “My name’s Bernard,” he said. “I’m from Kensington.”
“And you know where you’re going, I take it?”
“Complete instructions,” said Bernard. “Not as if it ever changes, though. All the tourists want to go to the same dreary places.”
Rowan Rover smirked. “I think this lot may surprise you.”
– THOMAS GRAY
CHAPTER 5
WINCHESTER
WHEN ALL THE luggage had been stowed into the undercarriage of the coach, and the travelers had boarded the bus two by two, like Noah’s passengers on an earlier tour, Rowan Rover turned to address the group. First he introduced Bernard, their friendly and experienced coach driver, who would be the final authority on where the bus could and could not go. “England is not all motorways yet,” he reminded them. “Medieval towns were not constructed to accommodate lorries. Some of the rural counties are quite unspoiled. When we get down into the West Country, you will see some narrow lanes that wouldn’t take horses two abreast, much less allow this tin beast an unscathed passage.”
They looked up at Rowan with polite interest, possibly subdued by the fact that as far as their bodies were concerned it was ten A.M. after a grueling transatlantic all-nighter. Although the coach would have held three times their number comfortably, they still insisted upon sitting two by two, and they were all concentrated in the front six rows. He must, he realized, make a start at learning their names. His eyes strayed toward the right front seat, where a sleepy-looking Susan Cohen sat alone. He knew
The bus left the airport terminal, and for the first time the members of the tour got a glimpse of English scenery. It was not an auspicious beginning. Acres of scrub woodland and pasture stretched out on either side of the congested motorway, looking less than glamorous under a buttermilk sky that threatened rain at any moment.
After a moment’s experimentation with the coach microphone, Rowan Rover resumed his briefing. “Our first destination is Winchester, appropriately enough. After all, Winchester was the first capital of England, both before and after the Norman Conquest. It was the capital of Saxon Wessex, and later William the Conqueror’s capital of Norman England. He built a palace there after the invasion.”
“It’s a bakery now,” said Emma Smith.
The guide stopped in mid-vowel. “I beg your pardon?”
“The site of William the Conqueror’s palace is now occupied by a bakery. It’s beside the market cross. The bakery has a little sign in the window.”
“Specializing in French rolls, no doubt,” said Rowan acidly. He consulted his lecture notes. “And many of the early kings are buried in Winchester Cathedral. We will be staying at the Wessex, a Trusthouse Forte Hotel right on the cathedral green.”
“I don’t remember any hotel there,” muttered Emma Smith to her mother.
Elizabeth, who was sitting in the seat in front of them, overheard this remark and turned around. “Have you been to Winchester before?”
“Yes, when I was in college, I went on an archaeological dig to Winchester. We were digging for the old Saxon cathedral that had been destroyed by William the Conqueror in 1066. Its ruins are beneath the present churchyard. But there wasn’t a hotel next to the cathedral. I’m sure of it.”
“You went on the dig when you were in college?” said Maud Marsh, momentarily distracted from the indifferent scenery of the motorway. “How did American students happen to be allowed on the dig?”
“I think the British may have needed the money to do it in a hurry,” said Emma. “As I recall, a private company was planning to build something on land that had once been part of the cathedral holdings. When they started excavating, they found ruins, so they gave the archaeologists a certain amount of time to excavate the site before it was destroyed. Two American universities-Duke and North Carolina-put up the money in exchange for being allowed to send their own archaeology students over for field study. At least I think that’s how it went.”
Miriam Angel laughed at the memory of her daughter’s adventure. “Emma wrote us twice a week, telling us about what they were finding and what work she had been assigned. Once, I remember we got a letter from her that said, ‘Dear Mom and Dad, This week we are finding mass graves in the old churchyard. We have dug up lepers from the Crusades, and plague victims from the Black Death. How long do germs live?’ Her father wrote her back: ‘We don’t know, but we burned your letters.’ ”
“One of our daughters wanted to major in archaeology,” said Nancy Warren, with a glance at her husband. “Did you become an archaeologist, Emma?”
“No. That was the Sixties, when you did things that had no bearing on real life. I majored in math after that, and I taught for a while before I got married. This will be my first trip back to Winchester since the dig.”
“I expect a lot has changed since you were there, Emma,” said her mother. “Twenty years.”
Emma Smith frowned. “I hope it isn’t too commercialized,” she sighed.
Across the aisle Frances Coles giggled. “If William the Conqueror is running a bakery, I’d expect the worst, if I were you.”
By this time Rowan Rover had finished his introductory speech and the coach was pulling onto the motorway, heading south for Winchester. Rowan slid into the seat beside Elizabeth MacPherson and consulted his notes, with a view to scheduling a fatal accident.
“Any murders in Winchester?” asked Elizabeth.
With heroic effort Rowan Rover managed not to spring from his seat and run screaming down the aisle. Instead he reached for a cigarette and took particular care to note which end to light. Once it was lit, he exercised even greater care not to stick that end into his mouth. Drawing a few calming puffs of nicotine into his lungs, he turned to his companion and murmured, “I’m sorry. Didn’t catch that over the noise of the engine. What was it you were saying?”
