Missing Susan

“You may be able to find some more books on Constance Kent,” Rowan told Elizabeth.

“She didn’t write an autobiography, did she?” asked Elizabeth suspiciously. “What ever happened to her anyway?”

“Let us leave that chapter for our next fireside chat,” Rowan said. “I have had enough double Scotches this evening.”

“Excuse fingers.”

– HERBERT ROWSE ARMSTRONG, offering

an arsenic-laden scone to a rival solicitor

CHAPTER 13

HAY-ON-WYE

SUSAN COHEN WOULD forever think of Hereford Cathedral as an obstacle on the way to the used book mecca at Hay-on-Wye. She trotted through the morning tour of the Gothic cathedral with ill-concealed impatience, barely glancing at the cathedral’s pride and joy, the Mappa Mundi, a thirteenth-century map of the world. So great was her disdain that she did not even bother to liken the church or its exhibits to any comparable wonder in Minnesota. She fidgeted through the tour of the sanctuary and had to be nudged to remind her to stop tapping her foot while the guide was speaking.

Elizabeth MacPherson, unable to discover any murders, witch-burnings, ghosts, or other sensational items connected with the stately old church, shared Susan’s restlessness. The lunch stop, Hay-on-Wye, had both a famous murderer and used bookshops.

At last, the serious-minded members of the group finished inspecting the Mappa Mundi, the ancient books chained to benches in the library, and the carved choir seats. Rowan, for once, had little to add to the information supplied by the cathedral guide, and the tourists hurriedly resumed their places in the coach and headed for the green hills of Wales.

The A4338, a pleasant road with sweeping views of meadows, forests, and picturesque farms, took them out of Hereford and Worcester-and into the Welsh province of Powys. Only Bernard’s announcement, “Coming into Wales now!” indicated the change of country.

“How very odd,” said Elizabeth, studying the landscape. “Since England and Wales fought bitterly for centuries, I expected some sort of major barrier between the two. A great river, perhaps, or a forbidding chain of mountains. I come from Appalachia, where the customs and the accent are different from the rest of the South, because the mountains kept the cultures separate. But here there seems to be no geographic barrier. How did the Welsh maintain their separate customs and language, and why did they feel so different from the English?”

“I don’t know,” said Rowan. “They were Celts, of course, rather than being Angles, Saxons, Normans, and so forth, but I see what you mean. One would think that they’d have been intermarried out of existence years ago. Emma might have a theory. It’s a great pity she isn’t here.” For more reasons than one, he thought sadly.

“Of course, the different regions of Britain do have their individual characteristics,” Elizabeth mused. “Cameron and I have a tea towel at home that says: There were the Scots, who kept the Sabbath and everything else they could get their hands on. Then there were the Welsh, who prayed on their knees and their neighbors. Thirdly there were the Irish, who never knew what they wanted but were willing to fight for it anyway. Lastly, there were the English, who considered themselves a self-made nation, thus relieving the Almighty of a dreadful responsibility.” Rowan smiled. “A generalization, of course, but arguably accurate. What about Cornishmen?”

“Much like the Welsh, I expect, judging from the tales you tell of smugglers and wreckers.”

Susan Cohen yawned and looked at her watch. “How long until we get to Hay-on-Wye? Welsh people speak English, don’t they? And the money’s the same?”

Rowan suppressed a sigh of exasperation. “Wales has been part of Great Britain for considerably longer than Minnesota has been a state,” he told her. “You may recall that the Prince of Wales is a close relative of the Queen.”

Susan blinked. “Charles? Is that what that means? I thought him having Wales in his title was just a coincidence; you know, like Mars candy bars and the planet Mars.”

Deciding that a dose of remedial history was in order, the guide turned on his microphone and said, “Perhaps I ought to explain the origin of the royal title. In the late thirteenth century, King Edward the First defeated the Welsh prince Llewellyn and made Wales part of his kingdom. Legend has it that the Welsh demanded a Welsh-born ruler, who spoke no English, to be their prince, and Edward promised them such a prince. At Caernaryon Castle he brought out his own infant son, who met the conditions of the request: he had been born in Wales, and he didn’t speak English-or anything else yet. Since that time, the heir-apparent to the throne has always held the title of Prince or Princess of Wales.”

“Typical of the English,” said Maud. “Phony islands, carbonated lemonade, and now royal impostors.”

“We’ll be coming into Hay-on-Wye soon, Rowan,” said Bernard, making a turn off the main road. “There is a tourist welcome center just south of the village, with a proper car park beside it. It’s the best place to leave the coach if you don’t mind a quarter-mile walk or so into town.”

“Will we be able to see Mayfield?” asked Elizabeth MacPherson eagerly.

“Is that Herbert Armstrong’s house?” asked Rowan. “I don’t know. Would you recognize it if you saw it?”

“I doubt it,” Elizabeth admitted. “I suppose it would be uncouth to ask at the tourist center?”

Alice MacKenzie laughed. “The Chamber of Commerce won’t want to promote their local murderer, I’m sure.”

“How long ago did he live here?” asked Frances Coles with a little shiver. She preferred her murderers to be fictional.

“About 1920,” said Rowan. “Armstrong was a major in World War I. He moved here to become junior partner to the local solicitor, who conveniently died as soon as Armstrong learned his way about the firm.”

“Armstrong was such a stick!” said Elizabeth. “In the picture I’ve seen of him, he looks like a horse with rimless glasses and a mustache.”

“His wife was rather fiercely plain as well,” said Rowan. “Of course, she had money. And he did have a girlfriend, so perhaps he didn’t mind. He wrote cagey letters to his ladylove, hinting that should his wife pass away, he would be in the market for a new missus.”

“I suppose he killed his wife?” asked Alice with a disapproving frown.

“Oh, yes. Arsenic in the champagne. He might have got away with that one, but then he tried to poison the other local solicitor, and he was found out. The man noticed that every time he went to tea with Major Armstrong, he became ill. Armstrong was actually carrying a packet of arsenic when they arrested him.”

“How did he explain that?”

“He said he used it to kill dandelions on his lawn.”

Nancy Warren laughed. “I wonder if I should try arsenic on our dandelions, Charles?”

Her husband shook his head. “I don’t think it would work on them, dear.”

“No,” Rowan agreed. “But it did put Mrs. Armstrong under the dandelions, so to speak. She was a tiresome woman, by all accounts. She banned another solicitor from local society because he came to one of her parties wearing flannel trousers. Despite this great provocation, her husband was hanged for doing her in, of course.”

“Why are murderers so stupid?” sighed Maud Marsh.