Elizabeth, Frances, Kate, and Maud peered at them from the summit of the hill. “What is it, Susan?” Kate called out. “Did you sprain your ankle?”
“No!” yelled Susan. “Everybody stay back! I’ve lost a contact lens!”
For a quarter of an hour the six of them padded about the area on all fours, looking for the transparent lens, while Susan complained about the wind that blew dust in her face and caused her to lose the lens by rubbing the irritated eye. The Warrens and Martha Tabram drifted back to the group, announcing that they had found a hill with a view for miles in every direction, and there was no stone circle within sight. Rowan muttered something about modern vandals and continued to pat the heath with his fingertips. Finally, after everyone was thoroughly dusty from grubbing in the earth, and chilled by the evening wind at sunset, Susan herself found the offending object in the folds of her corduroy skirt, where-upon she announced that she’d had all the hiking that she could stand. As the weary troop straggled back across the moors toward the Manor House, a sore and bitter Rowan Rover looked earnestly for a pool of quicksand, with a view toward using it himself-but it had been a dry summer in Devon and the moors weren’t accepting any human sacrifices.
At nine that evening the Oak Room bar was empty except for the members of the mystery tour. Even Bernard had lingered after dinner, sipping a pint of bitter and listening to the general chat. Charles Warren was wedged on a small love seat between his wife and Martha Tabram, and the others occupied various armchairs, which they had pulled up in a circle round a coffee table. Susan, now restored to normal vision, wanted to compare the Manor’s restaurant to one in Minneapolis called Azur. Resolutely, Elizabeth MacPherson kept coming back to forensic anthropology and to murders in general, thus encouraging the few nontour patrons of the lounge to flee in a state of some anxiety. After half an hour of alternate monologues, a restful silence fell upon the group.
For once, it was Charles Warren who spoke up. “Talking about murders,” he remarked by way of introduction, “we called our youngest daughter this evening, and she gave us some news from the States. Seems there’s a mass murderer loose at the University of Florida.”
Immediately the group fell silent, and Rowan and Elizabeth looked like firehorses who’d just heard the alarm bell. “What sort of mass murderer?” asked Rowan, exhaling clouds of smoke.
“Sounds like another Bundy to me,” said Charles. “This past weekend he went on a rampage and killed four women students, I think, and one young man.”
“Young man?” echoed Elizabeth. “Oh! I suppose he was in the apartment with one of the women?”
“Right.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Collateral damage. He just happened to be in the way. I’d like to see the girls’ pictures, wouldn’t you, Rowan?”
“Only to verify that they look very much alike. They will, of course. Serial killers are very particular. Bundy liked brunettes with long, straight hair parted down the middle.”
Susan Cohen patted her blonde curls and laughed. “I guess I’m safe, then!”
“You are from Bundy,” said Elizabeth gravely. “So this guy killed five people over the weekend. They ought to have caught him by now.”
“They have,” said Charles. “Our daughter said they’d arrested an eighteen-year-old student on suspicion.”
“It’s not him,” said Elizabeth and Rowan together. Elizabeth nodded toward the guide, inviting him to explain.
“He’s too young,” said Rowan, gesturing with his whiskey glass. “Serial killers may start as young as eighteen, but I cannot believe that this is that murderer’s first killing spree. Doing away with five people in two days sounds very much like the fugue state one associates with the end of a serial killer’s career. To use our previous example, Bundy did just such a multiple crime just before he was caught. Psychologists think they do it subconsciously wanting to be caught.”
“If I were the Florida police,” said Elizabeth, “I’d be looking for a trail of missing women or unsolved crimes involving victims who resembled these latest murdered girls. Whoever did this had to work up to this kill spree.”
“Murdered women!” said Alice with a disapproving frown. “Always women! Aren’t there any female serial killers?”
Rowan Rover shrugged. “Little old lady poisoners. But they kill boyfriends or family members. I’d hardly classify them as sex crimes.”
Susan Cohen giggled. “What we need for true equality is a female serial killer!”
Elizabeth MacPherson looked thoughtful. “I suppose the closest we get to it is child killing, wouldn’t you say, Rowan?”
“As far as I know,” he agreed. “Although, nothing is too bizarre these days. Somewhere in New Jersey there may be a woman karate expert picking up unsuspecting male hitchhikers and doing them in on stretches of lonely road. I find it hard to imagine, though. Yes, I should say that child killing is the closest female equivalent to the Bundys of this world. Were you, by any chance, thinking of Constance Kent?”
“I suppose I was,” said Elizabeth.
“Interesting. So you think she did it?”
“All right,” said Frances Coles, holding up her hand. “Time out. If you’re going to talk shop, you might as well let us in on it. Who was Constance Kent?”
Rowan Rover looked pensively into his empty glass. “I wonder if I might have another double Scotch first?”
Kate Conway volunteered to stand him a drink in exchange for the story, and after she had supplied him with a fresh glass, he settled back in the leather wingchair and began the tale.
“We shall be traveling within a few miles of her house,” he said. “She lived in a large house near Rode, a few miles south of Bath. This was in 1860. The murder occurred in that year-when Constance was sixteen. Her father was a factory inspector, but he insisted on living extravagantly, so that the family was always hard-up for money. I think Kent had five children by his first wife. After her death, he married the pretty young governess, Mary Pratt, and they proceeded to have several more children, including a son, Francis Savile Kent, born in 1856. In 1860 the boy was found with his throat cut in an outbuilding on the Kent property. The actual cause of death, though, was suffocation.”
“How could they tell that?” asked Frances.
“From the bleeding,” said Kate Conway absently. “The patient bleeds very little if cuts are made postmortem, because the heart has already ceased to pump the blood.”
Rowan smiled approvingly. “Thank you, Nurse Conway.”
“Why would anyone cut the throat of a dead person?” Frances persisted.
“To make it look like a stranger had done it, I expect,” said Kate.
“That was the police theory, certainly,” said Rowan. “But which member of the household did it? The crime was investigated at length by the local police, and the victim’s half sister Constance Kent was charged with the murder, but she was released for lack of evidence. Five years later, she astonished everyone by going to the police of her own accord and confessing to the murder of Francis Kent.”
“There!” said Elizabeth triumphantly. “You admit it. She confessed!”
“Oh, yes, she confessed,” Rowan agreed. “Whether or not she did it is another matter.”
“Oh, good! A real life murder mystery!” said Frances Coles. “Who do you think did it?”
“Before we discuss if further, I need to read up on the case again. I know the general facts, but I’m not well- informed enough to argue about it. Ask me again tomorrow night in St. Ives. I’ll try to have another look at a crime book by then. Perhaps we could discuss more familiar ones in the meantime.”
Martha Tabram stifled a yawn. “Not I,” she said. “It’s nearly ten o’clock. Good night all.”
Emma Smith and her mother also bade them a hasty farewell, saying that they wanted to do some walking in the early morning. Susan announced that there was a good television program coming on at ten and she wanted to watch it. The others settled back to hear more tales of crime.
After Elizabeth and Rowan had talked shop-through two more double Scotches-about the moors murderers, the notorious Krays, and other favorite cases, the group fell silent. No one else was very keen on true crime; they simply liked a genteel whodunit to pass the time.
Finally Maud Marsh said quietly, “Have either of you ever heard of a case concerning a Chinese gentleman named Mr. Miao?”
