“This is meant to be the image of an elephant,” she told them, pointing to an object with tusks and hooves, carved under stall 44. “We think the artist did it from hearsay.”
“Well, it isn’t too bad,” said Frances Coles, who had seen her second-graders do worse after an eyewitness encounter with the beast.
Charles Warren carefully photographed the elephant seat, with and without the tour members grouped around it. Emma asked a number of technical questions about cathedral restoration, and Maud Marsh made a note of the times services were held.
“I may come back for Evensong,” she told the guide.
“I’ll come with you,” said Alice.
At 11:55 Mrs. Lacey finished the whirlwind tour at the west front of the cathedral and wished them a pleasant stay in Exeter. Most of the group started back for the hotel, where lunch was being served, and Susan was complaining that her feet hurt because Italians didn’t know how to make shoes. When Kate, Alice, and Frances declared themselves ready for more walking, Elizabeth looked at her watch. “We have fifty-five minutes until the baron wants us for rehearsal,” she announced.
“We could go shopping,” said Kate Conway wistfully. “But it would mean missing lunch.”
“I’d rather shop than eat,” said Elizabeth.
Frances Coles burrowed into her cavernous purse. “I saved some rolls from breakfast if anyone else would like one.”
Alice MacKenzie looked longingly at the maze of streets leading away from the cathedral. “I just wish we could find our way back to some of those shops we passed on the tour.”
“We can,” said Elizabeth, holding up her notebook. “I mapped the entire route, and made a note of all the best shops. But we only have an hour. Run!”
Two woolshops, five clothing stores, and eight curio vendors later, the weary shoppers returned to the hotel, laden with packages and too late for lunch, but triumphant in their success at having achieved an entire hour for a guide-free rampage in an English city.
“Rowan would be very disappointed in us,” said Frances Coles. “We should have been visiting museums or something.”
“Consider it a contribution to the local economy,” Elizabeth advised her.
After depositing the packages in their respective rooms, they hurried downstairs to the lower level, where the 1928 movie company was rehearsing its screen melodrama in the room that had been a banquet hall the night before. Now it was dark and the tables were gone. In their place stood a wooden coffin on sawhorses, illuminated by a brace of candles. The spectators lined the walls watching Sir Herbert the actor (Dracula) embrace a beautiful young victim.
“Did we miss much?” asked Elizabeth, who managed to recognize Martha Tabram in the semidarkness. Alice, Frances, and Kate crowded around to hear her whispered reply.
“They’re casting stand-ins for the actors. Sir Herbert was particularly asking for you, Kate.”
Kate blushed and hurried over to join the actors. Soon she was decked out in a white nightgown, ready to be the bride of Dracula.
Martha Tabram turned back to the shoppers. “Oh, before we began, the baron announced that Miss Jenkins had died of arsenic poisoning.” She laughed. “He read a list of symptoms that she displayed at the hospital. They tallied exactly with the ones you mentioned last night, Elizabeth.”
“Nice save on their part,” muttered Elizabeth grudgingly.
“Wouldn’t it be funny if she really were dead,” mused Frances.
“If so, I think you’ll find that she has been reincarnated,” said Martha. “Look at that woman standing beside the coffin.”
“The blonde?” asked Frances, squinting into the darkness. “She looks very young and beautiful to me.”
“So she does,” Martha agreed. “But if you put her in a frumpy gray wig and a shapeless dress, she could appear considerably older. It’s the same actress. Very clever of them. There wouldn’t be much point in having a member of the company out of commission after the first hour of the weekend.”
“Then it isn’t a clue,” said Alice, disappointed.
“No,” said Martha. “I just wanted to set Frances’ mind at rest. The secretary may be dead, but the actress who played her is very much alive.”
The cleverness of the acting company was further exhibited later that same afternoon. On the hotel terrace a sword-fight was staged between their two principal actors, with all the mystery guests watching from the sidelines. As they thrust and parried, the young blond Mr. Scott was cut on the arm. Ginger, the leading lady vampire, hurried him away to have it bandaged. This time Kate did not offer her nursing skills.
“Well, he’s dead,” said Alice MacKenzie cheerfully.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” protested Frances. “It was only a little scratch.”
“Hamlet,” Alice replied. “A little poison on the sword and he’s done for.”
“Better still,” said Susan Cohen, “irradiated thallium! Rick Boyer used that in Moscow Metal. You get it out of nuclear power plants and put it on a pellet or knife blade in order to penetrate the skin. See, in the novel-”
“Susan… Susan!” Elizabeth MacPherson was shaking her head sadly. “It’s 1928, Susan. No irradiated thallium. No nuclear power plants.”
“Curare?” said Susan hopefully. “There’s another book…”
Several minutes later the answer to their speculations proved to be: none of the above. The actor reappeared with a bandaged arm, in good spirits again, and ready to resume rehearsal. It was only then that people noticed that another member of the cast was missing. Ten minutes of frantic searching by all concerned resulted in the discovery of his body in the hallway outside the banquet room. He was theatrically dead.
“Well,” said Maud Marsh philosophically. “They got us on that one. Did any of you see him leave?”
“No,” said Kate Conway. “I was too busy worrying about the sword wound.”
Emma Smith and her mother were comparing notes. “At least this pares down the list of suspects,” she remarked. “At this rate there won’t be many people left by tomorrow morning.”
“If we get any more clues, we’ll let you know,” said Elizabeth kindly.
After dinner that night there were more goings-on. The amateur sleuths were summoned to the leading lady’s room by a distraught Mr. Scott and a new murder victim was discovered, dead on the bathroom floor, with Mr. Scott’s scarf wound around her neck. Clues were dispensed left and right as the actors quarreled and expressed their sorrow over the loss of the grande dame. Elizabeth had been spending a quiet evening in her room, intending to write some letters, but after the dramatic interruptions, she was out of the mood for solitary correspondence. Instead she invited Kate Conway and Frances Coles back to her room for hot chocolate.
“It’s wonderful having these little electric kettles in the hotel rooms!” said Frances, as she settled in the chintz chair beside the window. She was wearing a dark green dressing gown that set off her auburn hair. “I wish American hotels would think of doing that.”
“They’re probably afraid the guests would burn the place down,” said Elizabeth. “Which they probably would.”
Kate Conway, in a white gown reminiscent of her bride of Dracula costume, sat down on the bed, nibbling on a piece of shortbread. “I still don’t know who the murderer will turn out to be. I thought it was Lady Alice, but now she’s dead. That was an exciting episode tonight, wasn’t it?”