“And William just tore down the old one?”
“Yes. He used many of the stones from the Saxon cathedral to build his Gothic one, but in Winchester he didn’t build his new church on top of the old one. He did that everywhere else, but here his architects chose to construct the new building on a site several feet to the right of the ruined church. It’s the only Saxon cathedral that will ever be found.”
“Why?” asked Alice, who hadn’t quite followed the explanation.
Emma sighed. “Because in order to find any of the other Saxon cathedrals, you’d have to tear down the present cathedrals. Canterbury, for example.”
“What a cruel thing for William to have done!” exclaimed Frances.
“He was French,” Alice reminded her.
“It made very good sense politically,” said Emma. “If you destroy the old church, the people you conquered have to worship in your church. I expect it cut down on dissension considerably.”
“Should we go inside the cathedral?” asked Alice, as they passed the West Door.
“That is scheduled for the group tomorrow morning,” said Emma. “I wonder if Thomas Thetcher is still here, though. Come on!” She left the path and began to walk away from the church toward a small group of tombstones near the outer wall of the green.
“Who is Thomas Thetcher?” asked Frances. “Anyone famous?”
“Only posthumously,” said Emma. “According to his tombstone, he was a grenadier who died from drinking small beer.”
“What’s small beer?”
“Not very alcoholic. More like soda pop. Anyway, they put the whole story in verse on his tombstone, which is what made him so infamous. When I was on the dig here in Winchester, we used to love to show him off to tourists. They couldn’t have got rid of that gravestone!”
They split up and began wandering around the upper green, reading the inscriptions on the remaining stones.
“Here it is!” cried Alice, pointing to a well-tended gravestone of old-fashioned design. “Thomas Thetcher.”
Together they read the inscription, lamenting the overheated young soldier’s death from drinking overly cold small beer. The epitaph ended with a warning to passersby: “And when you’re hot, drink strong or not at all.”
Alice MacKenzie noted it all down carefully for future inclusion in her journal. “When I die, I hope nobody puts anything silly on my tombstone,” she said in a tone that left no doubt of her opinions on the subject of prankster stonemasons.
“Oh, don’t talk about dying!” laughed Frances. “I’ve never seen a healthier group of tourists, have you?”
Elizabeth MacPherson found that she had a small, but comfortable second-floor room with a beautiful view of the cathedral out her picture window. She sat for several minutes admiring the splendor of the medieval architecture, the serenity of the cathedral grounds, and the intricacy of light and shadow on the stonework. All this ethereal pleasure was considerably enhanced by the consumption of the chocolate bar that the Wessex Hotel had thoughtfully provided for each guest.
After several moments’ contemplation of a blank sheet of hotel stationery while considering her adventures thus far (that is, since her eight A.M. departure from Edinburgh), she regretfully decided that, while she certainly had the time just now to communicate with her various correspondents, she had, alas, nothing to say. To write Having wonderful time, wish you were here would do nothing to enhance her reputation for cleverness.
She considered taking a nice bracing walk to enjoy the beauties of the English countryside, but a glance at her watch confirmed her suspicion that the shops were closed.
She decided to have another look at Rowan Rover’s book. Since the author was an authority on British murder cases, his presence would provide an excellent opportunity for her to discuss some of the famous unsolved crimes with an expert. Because of the inexactness of forensic science in the old days, quite a number of nineteenth-century murder cases were unsolved; at least a good many people were acquitted, rightfully or not. Elizabeth enjoyed second-guessing the expert witnesses in the vintage trials. How did Adelaide Bartlett get corrosive chloroform down her husband’s throat without leaving a trace? Did the man on the green bicycle murder pretty Bella Wright on a country road near Leicester? Did Ethel LeNeve know that her lover Dr. Crippen had murdered his wife when she ran away with him to Canada?
Elizabeth was delighted at the prospect of discussing these crimes with Rowan Rover. She felt that she knew him already. After all, they had about a hundred mutual friends, most of whom had ended up on the gallows for the crime of murder. True, Rover had seemed nervous when she tried to discuss true crime with him earlier, but she put that down to a natural shyness on his part, and she was sure that his reserve would dissolve after everyone became better acquainted, especially if he was pressed to discuss his pet subject. Elizabeth decided she could help their diffident guide overcome his nervousness by discussing murder with him at every possible opportunity.
At seven o’clock Rowan Rover changed his clothes and decided that he could probably do without an evening shave. He opted for a last cigarette instead. It was time to meet the troops. He supposed it would be a good idea to get better acquainted with the lovely Susan: useful to know whether she was afraid of heights, what she drank, and so on. Rowan Rover’s greatest fear was that his susceptibility to attractive women would be his undoing. He pictured himself like the huntsman in Snow White, falling on one knee before fair Susan Cohen, telling her that her wicked uncle wished her dead and urging her to flee into the forest so that he would not have to kill her. He had a feeling, though, that besides the probability that she would not believe a word of it, such altruism might be hazardous to his own health, as well as to his financial well-being. While there might indeed be a shortage of assassins in Minneapolis, Rowan had no doubt that, if double-crossed, the resourceful Mr. Kosminski could locate one elsewhere, and that no expense would be spared in enabling the thug to track down Rowan himself and kill him in the alleys of Whitechapel or the lanes of Cornwall. Anywhere, really.
He looked at his watch. Time to go down for the glass of sherry and to learn more about the other tourists in the party. Elizabeth MacPherson, the Scot with the southern drawl, was a forensic anthropologist. He must discover more about that. Could she just identify bodies from skeletal remains, or could she also figure out cause of death, if she happened to be on the spot when one occurred? Just his luck to get a bloody medical vulture on his tour. And the Conway girl was a nurse. Who else was along for the ride? A mortician? A coroner? A bloody police inspector? Rowan reflected that he was about to express more polite interest in a group of tourists than he had ever exhibited before. He hoped they appreciated his efforts.
As he flipped off the light switch, he took one last look at the dark cathedral, silent beneath a pale oval moon. He thought he detected a definite smirk etched on the lunar surface.
In the Wessex lounge two semicircular sofas had been reserved for the mystery tour participants. A low table held a bottle of sherry and the requisite number of glasses.
Rowan Rover waited until everyone was present before addressing his charges. “Now,” he said, “suppose we go round the group and get everyone’s name-and perhaps a word from each of you about how you happened to come on the tour, and what you’d like to see.” He smiled at Charles Warren, who was no longer advertising the governing skills of Erik Broadaxe. He was now looking considerably more distinguished in a navy jacket and tie. “Suppose we start with you, Charles. No one’s likely to forget who you are.”