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
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?
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
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,
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.”
– MARK TWAIN,
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-“
“That seems reasonable,” Elizabeth agreed, remembering somewhat guiltily her insistence on advancing the
