Charles Warren reddened a bit, and it was apparent that Nancy was the one who did most of the talking in social situations. “I’m Charles Warren. We’re from San Diego, and I own a computer electronics firm. I guess we came on this trip because we’ve always wanted to see England, and mostly because Nancy likes mysteries.” He nodded toward his wife, obviously ready to relinquish the floor.
“I’m Nancy Warren and I just adore British mysteries,” said the small blonde beside him. “I grew up with Nancy Drew and then I moved on to Agatha Christie.” She reminded Rowan Rover of the sweet-girl-next-door movie actress, June Allyson. Lucky I don’t have to kill her, he was thinking.
“Am I next?” said the elderly woman beside her. She was tall and slender, and her energy and alertness belied her age. “My name is Maud Marsh and I’m seventy-seven. I’m from Berkeley, and I read Agatha Christie and Dorothy Sayers. I like the sort of mysteries that don’t have gangsters in them.”
“Will you be able to keep up with us on a walking tour?” asked Susan.
Maud Marsh gave her a mirthless smile. “I usually walk five miles a day at home. I doubt we’ll be doing more than that.”
“Some of us may have trouble keeping up with you,” said Rowan gallantly. “Who’s next?”
“Martha Tabram,” said the well-dressed brunette with the Canadian accent. “My husband is a surgeon in Vancouver, and since he couldn’t get away this fall for a real vacation, I decided to try this tour. I wanted to see the south of England again, and this seemed like an ideal way to do it.”
“Susan Cohen, from Minneapolis,” said the intended victim, swishing her blonde hair like a model in a shampoo ad. “I’m young, so I don’t have to exercise yet, but I thought a tour might be a fun way to see England, and maybe enlarge my book collection. I admire British mysteries, too-those by Colin Dexter and P. D. James-but we also have a lot of good mystery writers around Minneapolis. Has anybody read R. D. Zimmerman? He has this one book called-”
Rowan Rover realized that henceforth they might all have to pretend to have read a good many books that they had actually never heard of. “Fascinating,” he said hurriedly. “And you are Elizabeth…”
“Yes. Elizabeth MacPherson. I’m a forensic anthropologist, with a doctorate but no job yet. My husband is a marine biologist. He went off to do seal research, so I decided to take this tour. I’ve read a few murder mysteries, but I really love true crime.”
“Having a husband who comes home with the Gulf Stream could drive anybody to true crime,” murmured Rowan, “but we’re glad to have you, anyhow. And you are…?”
“Kate Conway,” said the youngest member of the group, flashing her dark eyes at him. She was wearing a simple blue sheath dress and a string of pearls. “I’m an emergency room nurse. I like to travel. I enjoyed the public television presentations of Sherlock Holmes.”
When the discussion of Jeremy Brett’s interpretations of the Sleuth of Baker Street versus those of Mr. Basil Rathbone had subsided, Rowan Rover invited Alice MacKenzie to identify herself to the group. She announced herself in sympathy with the Christie readers and the Jeremy Brett watchers. Thereupon the attention turned to her roommate, Frances Coles.
Frances managed to smile and look terrified at the same time. She tugged at a lock of auburn hair and smoothed imaginary wrinkles out of her corduroy skirt. Rowan, who was hopeless at guessing ages, thought she might be in her early forties, but since she was a Californian it was hard to tell, since they cheated by exercising and going on diets. “I just wanted to come to England because I read so much about it,” she said softly. “I used to teach second grade. I’m a great fan of Ellis Peters.”
“You are in luck,” said Rowan Rover magnanimously. “We shall be visiting Brother Cadfael’s home city of Shrewsbury at the end of next week and you will be able to see the settings for the Ellis Peters novels.” Rowan Rover had never read Ellis Peters himself, but he was well-briefed on the tour itinerary. Besides, years of association with university English departments had left him able to bluff his way through almost any literary discussion. Sometimes he even fooled himself into thinking that he had read Moby Dick and War and Peace.
“Am I next?” said the serious-looking young woman in rimless glasses. “My name is Emma Smith and this is my mother, Miriam Angel.”
Her mother was the most English-looking of the bunch, pale with softly waved brown hair and green eyes in a gentle heart-shaped face. In her good-but-not-new tweed jacket and well-cut skirt, she fitted Rowan’s idea of a duchess-or she would if she gained forty pounds or so. In Rowan’s experience, duchesses seldom came in small packages.
“We’re from Colorado,” Emma was saying. “My husband thought we’d both enjoy coming on this trip. He’s at home minding the two kids.”
Miriam beamed with pride. “Emma’s husband is an attorney. And such a dear!”
Rowan Rover was unable to imagine any reason why a sane man who was capable of supporting himself would offer to babysit for two children while sending his wife and mother-in-law on an extended European vacation. Knowing lawyers, though, the motives were bound to be devious. He gave the assembly a bright smile. “How lovely,” he said. “So there we all are. No real crime experts here, then.” (Thank God, he finished silently.)
“I hear you’re a crime expert,” said Alice MacKenzie.
For a moment he froze. Then he realized that the comment pertained to his theoretical connections with crime history-not his future plans to practice what he preached. “Oh, me? You want to know about me?”
The group nodded solemnly. They still had an ounce or two of sherry to finish, after all.
“Well, I am from Cornwall originally,” said Rowan Rover. “I attended a minor public school in the West Country, and then went on to Oxford. We shall be going to Oxford near the end of our tour, by the way. As some of you know, I give the Jack the Ripper tour in Whitechapel for one of the city tour companies-when I am not otherwise engaged as a media consultant on crime. And I write books about English crimes. I hope you will find me knowledgeable about your areas of interest. Certainly I shall be helpful in history and geography; fictional mystery stories are not, alas, within my realm of expertise.”
“Don’t worry,” said Susan Cohen cheerfully. “I’ve read most of them, and I’ll be happy to fill everyone in on the books pertaining to the areas we visit.”
“How nice,” said Rowan, from the depths of a plaster smile. “And now, before we adjourn for dinner, let me tell you tomorrow’s schedule. The hotel will serve you breakfast, any time between seven and nine-”
“I eat breakfast at six-thirty,” said Maud Marsh.
“So do I if I still happen to be up,” said Rowan. “Well, let me inquire for you. Perhaps they can provide something earlier than seven. At nine o’clock you will all assemble in the Wessex lobby and we’ll walk over across the green for your tour of the cathedral, to be followed by a quick tour of Winchester College and a look round the city. Lunch is on your own, but be back in the lobby at one. Bernard will bring the coach to the car park, and we will go off on our afternoon tour, to see the New Forest site where King William Rufus was murdered in the year 1100. We shall also visit the grave of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the creator of Sherlock Holmes.”
Elizabeth MacPherson frowned. “Conan Doyle was Scottish. He was born in Edinburgh.”
Rowan Rover acknowledged the fact with a bland smile. “His heart may have been in the Highlands, madam, but the rest of him is under a stone cross in Minstead. I shall prove it to you tomorrow. Any more questions? No? Off you go, then.”
“For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground