Missing Susan

Rowan Rover, still parchment-pale and muttering under his breath, stalked off in the direction indicated by the guard, while the mystery tourists pattered happily in his wake. Bloody ad-libbing. What if they ask me something not on this handout? They entered a small room filled with ship models in glass cases. “Ladies and Charles, here we have a collection of ship models in glass cases, no doubt of sentimental importance to the folk of a coastal town,” said the impromptu guide in the hearty tone one uses to persuade children to eat asparagus. “Aren’t they neatly painted?”

The group dutifully admired the tiny ships for several seconds. Thereupon they proceeded to further exhibits. “Here we have one of the Cary family drawing rooms. It is called the Blue Room, perhaps because of its blue walls. That constitutes a guess on my part. This paper does not actually say that.” Rowan looked around. “The room contains a crystal chandelier, a fireplace, the sort of marble statue that unscrupulous Italian con men-cum-antique dealers used to sell to…” He checked himself in mid-editorial. “Never mind. Some sculptures. And some landscape paintings of the Christmas card school of art. Take a moment to admire it.” He ran his finger down the page of exhibit listings.

“My aunt Amanda would enjoy this room,” said Elizabeth. “She has several very much like it.”

“It doesn’t look like an abbey to me,” sniffed Frances Coles. “I have read all of the Brother Cadfael novels, and I know about twelfth-century monasteries.”

“I expect the family did extensive renovations,” said Martha Tabram. “People usually do when they buy an older home. We did. The Carys had over two hundred years of ownership in which to redecorate.”

“I wonder if it would be expensive to redecorate a place like this,” mused Susan. “We have some wonderful old mansions along the Mississippi.”

“I thought you lived in Minnesota,” said Rowan.

“I do. On the Mississippi.”

Right, thought Rowan, and I am king of the Belgians. American geography had eluded him completely. “And I am sure that Minneapolis has museums just as fine as this one,” he said carefully.

“It does remind me of the Sibley House in Mendota,” said Susan, serenely unconscious of self-incrimination. “It was the home of Minnesota’s first state governor. Of course, it isn’t as old as this.”

“Perhaps if the Vikings had been more politically inclined, it could have been,” Rowan murmured. “Of course, then it would have been the Leif Erickson House.”

“I wonder if it would cost much to heat this place,” said Charles Warren, eager to change the subject.

His wife shivered. “To get it as warm as I’d want, you’d have to set fire to it.”

“Ah!” said Rowan Rover. “The guide sheet informs me that there is an exhibit of marble statuary through this passage in another small room. Supposedly by a local sculptor… nineteenth century… Ah, here we are…” He looked appraisingly at the conglomeration of carved figures jamming the tiny room. “Oh, dear, yes. He was a local sculptor, wasn’t he? I believe his name was…” Rowan had lost his place on the fact sheet, so he improvised. “… Fred Smith.”

“The Fred Smith?” asked Elizabeth solemnly.

“No,” said Rowan Rover. “A Fred Smith.”

A few more rooms finished the ground-floor exhibits, and Rowan led them up a wide marble staircase festooned with paintings which, after the first shudder, he steadfastly ignored. “The Agatha Christie room is tucked away somewhere up here,” he muttered. “I suppose we’ll have to plow through more of this to find it, though.”

He poked his nose into one dimly lit room. “Ah!” he cried, turning to face his party. “There seems to be a real painting here. Come on, come in. That large picture over there is The Children’s Holiday by Holman Hunt. It is the showpiece of the collection.” He stepped back to what he hoped was out of earshot and murmured, “Dear God, I never thought I’d see Holman Hunt seem so exalted. I think they use him at the Tate to prop doors open.”

Frances Coles, who quite liked Victorian art, was gazing admiringly at the happy scene of a matronly woman presiding over a silver-laden tea table at an outing with her five children and their various pets. It was as exact as a photograph, and seemed to capture the children’s personalities in their varying expressions.

“You can tell she had domestic help,” said Alice MacKenzie, who was also studying the painting.

“I wonder if they had to cook all those things for the picnic every time Mr. Hunt came to paint some more of the picture,” mused Kate Conway.

Having already given Mr. Holman Hunt considerably more than his due, in Rowan’s jaded opinion, the guide shooed them out into another passageway. “Now this is more like it!” he exclaimed, catching a glimpse of the framed drawings that lined the corridor. “These are William Blake’s own illustrations for Songs of Innocence. Wonderful! I thought these were in the Tate!” While the group congregated around the first few etchings, Rowan took another look at his crib sheets. “Reproductions!” he exclaimed. “The originals are in the Tate!” Seeing the questioning expression on the faces of his followers, Rowan forced a note of enthusiasm back into his voice. “But these are very good copies. Quite recognizable. And should you ever visit the Tate, you will know what to look for. Let’s move along, shall we.”

The next room proved to be the Carys’ dining room, formally decorated eighteenth-century style, with pale green walls and an ornate ceiling, all adorned with white bas-relief scenes of Roman figures and other ancient images.

“You have heard of the famous architect Robert Adam and the term Adam room!” Rowan solemnly inquired.

Eagerly, they all nodded that they had indeed.

“Well, this isn’t one.” He turned on his heel and walked out.

He was more enthusiastic about an unconverted part of the ancient building, with its thick stone walls and simple medieval lines. These rooms were used as workrooms for the servants. As they wound their way up the twisting stone staircase, Nancy Warren noticed a small slit in an alcove by the stairs. “What is this hole for, Rowan?” she asked. “It reminds me of a laundry chute, but it’s too small.”

“You’re on the right track,” he said. “It’s… why don’t you lean over and take a deep breath just above it.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Nancy and Alice did as he suggested.

“It smells like my catbox,” Alice declared.

Rowan nodded approvingly. “Identical purpose, but for people instead of cats. The smell never quite comes out of the stone.”

Elizabeth MacPherson muttered, “Remind me not to buy a castle.”

“But where is the Agatha Christie room?” asked Maud Marsh, tugging at the sleeve of the guide’s sweater.

He ran his finger along the map. “I think if we go through this door, we should be there. So, if no one wishes to try out the laundry chute, let us proceed.”

They emerged again into the renovated part of the ancient abbey, in a carpeted upstairs hallway. “Here we are,” Rowan announced, peering into an open door. “This door on the right. Go right in.”

There was barely space for a dozen people in the tiny room with its casement window-and its air of having been a bedroom before the museum people started stashing exhibits in every cranny. The walls were now taken up with bookcases, all filled with various editions of Agatha Christie’s eighty-odd novels, and amidst this literary display were a few framed, unautographed photos, a Mousetrap program, and a battered manual typewriter. Gravely the group studied these tributes to the city’s most famous author.

Finally Susan Cohen broke the leaden silence. “I have a better collection than this,” she said quietly. “I have a copy of every book she ever wrote, too, and I have seen all these photos elsewhere. Except that one over there, of her brother’s dog.”

“I have a movie poster from Death on the Nile,” said Frances Coles.

Maud Marsh peered at the photographs and frowned. “I don’t get any feeling of the woman herself from this room.”

“That would have pleased her,” said Rowan. “I do know that much about her.”

“Did you say this place served teas?” asked Charles Warren, who had endured the afternoon’s enlightenment with remarkable forbearance.