Missing Susan

Elizabeth snorted. “Would you be?”

“No. I suspect that his henchman-in-residence, Forster, did the deed, and that it was all hushed up at the inquest, which Dudley stage-managed personally. All the documents concerning the inquiry into Amy Robsart’s death were destroyed, you know, so we can’t very well second-guess the case from this century. But perhaps the most damaging writing about the case was an anonymous bit of libel called Leicester’s Commonwealth. Copies of it went round England like a naughty chain letter. That book called Lord Robert an adulterer, a murderer, an atheist, a coward. Just about every bit of invective imaginable. And even before that book appeared, people were scandalized by Amy’s convenient death, so the queen had to give up her intention of marrying him-if indeed she had ever meant to. She was very sharp in public relations, was Gloriana.”

“Can we go and see Cumnor Place?” asked Elizabeth. “It’s just outside Oxford.”

“I’m sorry,” said Rowan. “You are several hundred years too late. Not even the ruins remain, and I have no idea where the hall itself actually stood. It’s probably a street of bungalows these days. But Amy herself is buried in St. Mary’s Church on the high street in Oxford, if you’d like to pay your respects.”

“Thank you,” said Elizabeth. “I will.”

They had a cold afternoon’s walk at another medieval ruin, Minster Lovell Hall, a roofless stone shell on the banks of the River Windrush. The stately ruins lay in pastoral solitude in an expanse of meadow, bordered by the little country Church of St. Kenelm, resting place of the manor’s builder. As they walked about the site, chivvied by the wind, Rowan told them Minster Lovell’s romantic tale: the discovery in 1708 of the body of the last Lord Lovell, hidden away in a secret room.

“That was silly!” Susan Cohen declared. “Did they forget where they put him? It was the English Civil War, wasn’t it? I know about priests’ holes from The Gyrth Chalice Mystery by Margery Allingham-”

“No,” said Rowan hastily. “Francis, Viscount Lovell, was somewhat ahead of his time on that score. He supported an impostor named Lambert Simnel, who attempted to depose Henry VII. You remember Henry VII?”

“Fiberglass statue in Exeter,” said Alice MacKenzie.

“People have been remembered for less,” said Rowan without missing a beat. “Anyhow, Simnel was defeated, and the viscount conveniently disappeared. Otherwise, he’d have been executed. Apparently, he was concealed in a secret room here at Minster Lovell, but unluckily for him, the one servant who knew his whereabouts died suddenly, and Viscount Francis was never found. His bones were finally discovered two hundred years later.”

“And after he meets the Gyrth’s heir in the book, Albert Campion has to protect this gold cup that has been hidden in the house since ancient times-”

Rowan stopped and looked at her. “What did you say?”

Susan repeated her summary of the Margery Allingham plot, in which the Gyrth family must retain and display an ancient golden cup of mystic significance in order to keep their lands.

When she had wound down, the guide smiled. “Well, Susan,” he said, “at last I am able to contribute something in your area of interest. Apparently your mystery author based her tale on the tradition of a house called Nanteos, near Capel Seion in Wales. Until recently its owners displayed an ancient wooden cup, said to possess miraculous healing powers. Now do be quiet.”

Susan opened her mouth and shut it again.

“What happened to the viscount of Minster Lovell?” asked Frances Coles quickly.

“I’m afraid he starved to death in his hiding place.”

“And where is the secret room?” asked Charles, fingering his camera lens.

“I’ve no idea,” Rowan replied. “There isn’t enough left of the building to tell us, either.”

“Too bad,” said Elizabeth, eyeing the still-prattling Susan.

“Yes, isn’t it?” said Rowan.

As they drove through Cumnor that afternoon, Elizabeth scoured the landscape for a sign of stately ruins-an old gatepost, perhaps, or a lone chimney-but Amy Robsart’s residence had apparently been swallowed up by modern developments, and she could find no trace of the scene of the crime. Her disappointment was short-lived, however, for twenty minutes later Bernard announced, somewhat unnecessarily, that they had arrived in Oxford.

He navigated the busy streets, clogged with rush hour traffic, and set them down in Beaumont Street, at the door of the Randolph Hotel. Susan was rattling on about Colin Dexter and someone called Inspector Morse, but everyone contrived to ignore her. Rowan drowned her out, explaining that the neo-Gothic hotel was built in 1864 and was named after Dr. Francis Randolph, a principal of Merton College. “In the Spires Restaurant, you will find the coats of arms of all the colleges,” he told them. “After I check you in, you are at liberty until tomorrow morning. I’ll take you on a formal tour tomorrow, but do go out exploring on your own this afternoon. The shops are open,” he added wickedly.

Twenty minutes later, as he pretended to study the notice board in the hall next to the lobby, Rowan saw most of the tour group troop out of the hotel, chattering among themselves. Only the Warrens had not departed, which did not affect his plan in the least. Their whereabouts did not concern him. The important consideration was that Susan was gone, and with only four days left until the end of the tour, he could not afford to tarry any longer.

When the group disappeared from sight, Rowan strolled up to the registration desk and intoned in an impeccable Oxonian drawl, “I say, I wonder if you remember me from a quarter of an hour ago? Guide on the tour that checked in? One of the young ladies left her purse in the coach, and I’d like to put it in her room, if I may. I know you have bellmen who generally fetch and carry, but in this case I’d rather do it personally. The purse contains the young lady’s passport, you know, and a bit of cash. They will do it, these tourists. So careless. If I could just have the passkey to Miss Cohen’s room, I’ll pop right in with it and bring the key straight back.” His smile was dazzling. “Thank you so much.”

Fortunately the timid young thing at the desk did not notice that the guide was not carrying the aforementioned purse as he dashed off upstairs with the key to Room 307. He was, instead, carrying a screwdriver and a pair of needle-nosed pliers, but they were concealed in the pocket of his tweed jacket, well out of sight. Rowan had spent the weekend at home devising alternate, ever more bizarre and risky schemes for dispensing with Susan Cohen. He had returned to the tour, armed with various devices to implement those schemes-and a renewed determination to finish the task once and for all. A newly arrived stack of demands for payment and invective from yet another ex- wife had fueled this latest resolve to complete the contract-and thus to extricate himself from financial ruin.

As he hurried upstairs, he scarcely noticed the churchlike windows and the ornate ceiling designs above the Randolph’s main staircase. His mind was focused on the task at hand. God knows it will need concentration, he thought. Electronics is hardly my forte. He stopped in front of Room 307 and looked up and down the hall to make sure that no one else was lingering. Satisfied that he was unobserved, he slipped the key into the lock and let himself into the room. It was a small, nondescript single room with a view of an alley. The private bath was nearly half the size of the room itself. Barely glancing at the luggage still piled in the corner, Rowan took out his tools and headed for the bathroom. The light fixture over the sink, he decided. It’s the only thing she’ll be sure to touch. Carefully, he reached up and unscrewed the protective cover over the light. After several minutes’ tinkering with the wires, he was satisfied that he had made the correct modifications. Hurriedly he replaced the metal cover, wiped his fingerprints off everything with a hand towel, and left the room. Once downstairs, he waited until the clerk was talking on the telephone, with her back to him, before he strode over and placed the key on the counter. He was gone before she turned around. Perhaps she wouldn’t remember him at all, he thought-with more hope than conviction. Sighing in relief to have it over with, Rowan Rover wandered away in search of Chapters Cocktail Bar, where he would await further developments in a haze of cigarette smoke and double Scotches.

It was nearly six o’clock before the light faded and the shops closed, driving all the stragglers back to the safety of the hotel to plan their evening’s entertainment. Elizabeth MacPherson had met Kate Conway on Broad Street, in a gift shop specializing in Oxford sweatshirts, and they walked back to the hotel together.

“Maud went to Evensong with Alice MacKenzie and Frances Coles,” Kate told her. “Martha is seeing a friend from Oxford this evening, and Susan is still shopping.” She giggled. “You know that beautiful navy-blue coat of Martha’s? I saw Susan buying one just like it at Laura Ashley. She’ll probably wear it, too. I wonder what Martha will think of that.”

“Plenty, but she’s too well-bred to say anything,” said Elizabeth. “Dinner is out of our own pocket tonight, I suppose?”