The Windsor Knot

Edinburgh… That would have been in Dumfrieshire, thought Elizabeth, picturing a golden autumn day in the hills of the southern uplands bordering England. A woman was crossing a stone bridge near the town of Moffat when she noticed a bit of color in the stream below. A closer look sent her screaming toward the village: the flotsam in the water was a severed human arm. The Scottish police searched the banks of the stream for days thereafter, eventually finding more than sixty butchered fragments, including two heads, a pelvis, some feet, and a pillowcase full of flesh, all teeming with insect larvae. (At this point in the narrative Elizabeth resolved to stop visualizing the scene.)

The killer had removed all identifying characteristics-eyes, ears, fingertips-from the bodies of the women, but through diligent inquiry the police learned that two women, Isabella Ruxton and her maid Mary Rogerson, were missing from over the border in Lancaster, and that they had been on their way to Edinburgh. Isabella’s husband, Dr. Buck Ruxton, insisted that the women were not missing, but they could not be found in Edinburgh, and no one recalled seeing them along the way. Dr. Ruxton, who was known to be notoriously jealous, was charged with murder. But when did the killings occur? The police theorized that the women died on September 19, days after they left Lancaster, which would have provided a good alibi for the doctor.

To test this theory, investigators took maggots from the body parts and sent them to Alexander Mearns at the University of Glasgow. Not a pretty job, but a useful one, thought Elizabeth, turning the page. Mearns recognized the larvae of the bluebottle fly and drew up a timetable of their life cycle. Allowing for cold autumn weather to slow the process, Mearns declared that the bodies had been dumped in the ravine near Moffat on September 16, the day after their disappearance, and at the subsequent trial Dr. Ruxton was found guilty of murder.

The Ruxton case marked the first time that maggots had been used to determine time of death. It was one of the historic moments in the annals of her often-unglamorous profession. Elizabeth thought of mentioning this Scottish achievement to her fiance, but decided that he might not regard it as romantic or complimentary to his homeland. Still, it was interesting. She made a note of the Ruxtons.

The round clock tacked on the cinderblock wall said eight minutes after eleven. If the article became any more graphic, lunch could be postponed indefinitely, which was just as well, she thought, straining to insert her finger into the waistband of her skirt. Perhaps she ought to go in search of more maggot articles for future lunchtime reading. Or she could try Bride’s magazine. That ought to do it. Where did they find those models? Bangladesh? Elizabeth had resolved not even to daydream about her year-off wedding until she had discernible cheekbones.

It was now June (lion cubs on her World Wild Life calendar), and she contemplated the next twelve months, feeling like someone crouched with her toes on a white line. It was going to be a year of computer screens and boiled rice. (On second thought, that menu reminded her too much of her present reading material. Make that lettuce salads.) In September she would take her orals and then begin writing the dissertation for her doctorate in forensic anthropology. If all went as planned, a svelte (with cheekbones!) Elizabeth would defend before her doctoral committee near the end of the term in May, and then Dr. Elizabeth could concentrate on Cameron Dawson, the marine biologist whose picture adorned her desk.

He was spending the summer at home in glorious Scotland, while she was stuck at the university, teaching undergraduate anthropology to disgruntled summer-school hostages in an un-air-conditioned building. Some people have all the luck, she thought, frowning at Cameron’s picture. And her parents had taken a long-awaited trip to Hawaii, without even a perfunctory expression of regret that she couldn’t go along. “Don’t call us,” they told her. “Not even if one of the relatives dies. We need this vacation.”

Elizabeth sighed again. There was some justice: Bill wasn’t having a restful summer, either. Her brother was clerking for a law firm in Richmond; she hoped the lawyers were getting their money’s worth. At least she would have a break in another week when the spring semester ended, perhaps a week at the beach-Virginia Beach, that is; a poor substitute for Waikiki. And that would be after she graded a zillion exams. Then came summer school. A bleak summer of work and dieting. Maybe there was something to be said for being a maggot. They ate all the time, grew enormously fat on purpose, slept it off in a cocoon, and then sprouted wings and burned off all the calories by flying. Not a bad deal. She was considering the possibilities of an insect afterlife when the telephone rang.

“Forensic anthro,” she said in her most businesslike tone.

“Good afternoon, Miss Anthro,” said an unmistakably Scottish voice.

“Cameron! I was just thinking about you!”

“And why was that?”

Wisely deciding not to mention the maggot article, Elizabeth simpered charmingly for a few minutes before it occurred to her to ask, “Why are you calling me in the middle of the day? The rates haven’t changed yet, have they?” Such considerations are necessary in a long-distance romance.

“No, no,” said Cameron. “I just felt like talking to you. How are things at the university?”

“Dull,” said Elizabeth. “I feel like a prisoner in this Gothic mausoleum. I’d rather be at the beach. How are things with you?”

“Oh, peaceful,” said Cameron, who thought it would be unchivalrous to claim to be having a good time when one’s fiancee has declared herself miserable. “Miss you, of course.”

“I should hope so.”

“I do have a bit of good news, actually,” said Cameron, endeavoring to sound both casual and innocent. “Thought you might like to hear it. Do you remember that work I did on the project to save the North Sea seals? The country has recognized my work by giving me a bit of an honor. I’ve been invited to the Royal Garden Party here in Edinburgh.”

After a gratifying gasp of awe, Elizabeth said, “What does that mean, exactly? Why do they want to see you?”

“To look after the royal seal!” Cameron laughed-alone-at his little marine-biologist joke, and then proceeded to explain. “Each summer the palace gives two garden parties (one at Buckingham Palace for English notables, and one for Scots at the Palace of Holyroodhouse in Edinburgh) to honor various members of the British public: distinguished civil servants, influential business people, civic officials, and outstanding achievers in the arts and sciences.”

“Just the odd thousand or so of the Queen’s closest chums,” said Elizabeth. “I see.”

Cameron saw his chance. “More like eight thousand, I’m afraid. You’re right, of course. I doubt if I’ll catch more than a glimpse of Her Majesty. Just a dreary function, really.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said Elizabeth.

“No, I shan’t. Technically one mustn’t. After all, it is a royal summons. I’ll tell you all about it.”

There was a transatlantic silence.

Cameron cleared his throat. “Well, I just thought I’d tell you the news. I know you’re rather interested in all the royal goings-on. Thought you’d be pleased for me.”

After another frosty interval, Elizabeth said, “You mean you just called me to tell me about the invitation? Don’t you have the common decency to invite me along?”

“Well, I would, you know, if it were up to me. Really, I would. But one may not bring guests. Except spouses, of course. Fiancees don’t count, I’m afraid.”

What a coincidence, thought Elizabeth, scowling. Just as I finish reading an article about Scottish maggots, one of them rings me up. She wisely refrained from expressing those sentiments aloud.

Cameron, who had interpreted his fiancee’s silence as a concession to the force of his arguments, offered another-fatal-bit of logic. “And like an idiot, Ian forgot to send me the letter. So I’m only just finding out about the invitation now, with the garden party only three weeks away-”

“Three weeks!” cried Elizabeth.

“Yes,” said Cameron, more confidently now. “Thursday, the sixth of July. Hardly any time at all, really.”

“Three weeks! I thought it was tomorrow. I can plan a wedding in three weeks! We can go to Edinburgh for the honeymoon! Just imagine getting to meet the Queen on your honeymoon! That ought to show Mary-Stuart Gillespie with her stupid trip to Puerto Vallarta! Oh, Cameron, this is wonderful!”

British reserve was much in evidence on the other end of the line. “I thought your parents were away on