Before Rowan Rover could think of a way to salvage the situation, Detective Heamoor echoed, “Here’s to crime!” and finished his glass.
With mounting horror, Rowan saw Emma Smith take a generous swallow of Susan Cohen’s tainted wine. Immediately she made a face. “You’re right, Susan,” she giggled. “It does taste like… what you said.”
After that the conversation progressed smoothly on to other topics. Rowan supposed that he must have uttered a word here and there, but he had no idea what went on at his table, beyond a vague impression that Susan had given the police officer plot summaries of a great many murder mysteries-so perhaps no one remembered much of the conversation. Rowan’s own mind was reeling with the enormity of his error, and he was frantically engaged in trying to devise some excuse to persuade Emma Smith to take an emetic. (Ipecac as a traditional Cornish beverage? But where would he get any on ten minutes’ notice so late at night?) His one consolation was that he hadn’t been able to obtain a really good poison like arsenic. His homemade herbal concoction might, after all, prove too weak to cause serious injury. Perhaps, he thought hopefully, she will have a thundering case of indigestion, for which I shall blame the seafood. Please let her survive, he thought. Idly he wondered if the Deity paid any attention at all to the prayers of aspiring murderers.
After a sleepless night of worry and more contingency planning for Susan’s demise, Rowan crept down to breakfast, half expecting his detective friends to be present in their official capacity. Instead, he found Emma Smith alive and well and eating breakfast with her mother and Maud Marsh. In his relief at this unexpected miracle, he scooped up a bowlful of Mueslix and sat down at their table.
“Good morning, ladies. How are you? How are you, Emma?” Never had the greeting been less perfunctory.
“Oh, I’m all right, I suppose,” Emma replied, but her tone suggested that she might have complained if she’d tried.
“Feeling a bit seedy?” asked Rowan. “Probably the rich food. Let me bring you a glass of milk.” Milk, he knew, could also act to lessen the effects of certain poisons. It was worth a try.
Half an hour later the group was assembled in the parking lot, marveling at another perfect summer day granted to them in late September.
“It’s St. Michael’s Mount this morning, isn’t it?” asked Nancy Warren.
“Can’t we go to Land’s End?” asked Elizabeth MacPherson.
“No,” snapped the guide. “That place is a complete tourist trap. I do have my standards. They may be low, but I have them. St. Michael’s Mount is much less commercial.”
“All right,” said Elizabeth. “It’s just that I was reading some English folklore about the lost land of Lyonesse, now covered by the sea. It’s supposed to be off the shore at Land’s End, and they say that during storms you can still hear the church bells of the drowned village, tolling beneath the waves.”
Rowan’s glare was flint. “Perhaps you’d like to go there on a buying spree this afternoon.”
This salvo ended all further discussion, and the rebellious flock boarded the bus in chastened silence. Susan managed to maintain this silence until the coach was nearly out of the grounds of Tregenna Castle. “I thought Mont St. Michel was over near France,” she remarked. “Have you read Aaron Elkins’ book Old Bones? It’s set out there, and it’s about this-”
Rowan lunged for the microphone and cut her off in mid-gallop. “Some of you may have confused Cornwall’s Mount St. Michael with its French counterpart Mont St. Michel.” Those of you to whom the word atlas denotes a brand of tire, he finished silently. “Actually the two differ somewhat in size and are located in entirely different places geographically. The French one is, conveniently enough, in the Channel, off the coast of France. The Cornish one was a port on the tin route to the Mediterranean in Roman times, but in 1070 a monastery was founded there by monks from Mont St. Michel.”
“William the Conqueror’s doing, I suppose?” said Alice.
“Probably. It’s a captivating place. An ancient granite castle seems to rise out of the rock itself at the summit of a mound surrounded by the sea. Actually, it will be interesting to see whether it is an island when we arrive. At high tide, the Mount is a few hundred yards from shore, but when the tide is out, you can walk out to it. There is a paved path leading from the shore to the stone steps at the harbor.”
“Maybe we could swim!” said Kate Conway, with rather more enthusiasm than she showed for walking.
Rowan Rover was stunned. “Swim? In the seas off Cornwall? You might as well go snorkeling in the sewage treatment plant. If it is low tide, you may walk the path to St. Michael’s Mount; otherwise, you will enrich a local boatman by fifty pence for a three-minute ride to the rock.”
Elizabeth, remembering the legend of Lyonesse, said, “How long ago was the island cut off from the mainland?”
“Well, the old Cornish name for the Mount means gray rock in the middle of the forest. There are still traces of old tree trunks in Mount’s Bay. Legend has it that the rock used to be five miles inland and in the middle of a dense forest. The forest was submerged by the sea around the time that Stonehenge was built-long before the arrival of the Romans. Or the French.”
“Is it a fortress?” asked Charles Warren.
“It was once. It has been the home of the St. Aubyn family for three centuries, though. Though I believe there was fear of a Nazi sea invasion during the war. It never occurred, however.” He turned to Elizabeth. “To my knowledge, there have been no lurid crimes associated with the Mount.”
Elizabeth returned his smirk. “And can we trust you not to fall off it?”
The high promontory of St. Michael’s Mount was visible for some distance before they actually reached it. When Bernard pulled the coach into the gravel parking lot adjoining the beach, they could see that the tide was high. Only a few feet of the paved path was visible at the shore, sinking into the blue water of the bay. As they trooped across the sand toward the embarkation point, they could see a flotilla of motorboats waiting to ferry passengers to the Mount. At midpoint in the bay an outcrop of barren rocks rose above the waterline, making a natural marker for monitoring the movement of the tide.
The castle looked like the Gothic cathedrals they had already seen, except that it was perched atop a steep hill, covered with shrubbery and scrub trees. Surrounding the stone docks at the base of the hill was a cluster of old buildings resembling a fishing village. They climbed into motorboats and reassembled on the quay for further instructions from Rowan. “We have about two hours to spend here,” he told them. “I wouldn’t want to cut into your shopping time. You may wander about the port here or, if you are feeling energetic, you can climb the Mount and have a look inside the castle.”
“Let’s go and see the castle!” said Maud. “Anyone want to come along? Miriam? Emma?”
“I don’t think I’m feeling up to it,” said Emma Smith.
Rowan glanced at her furtively. “There’s also a tea shop here in the village. Perhaps you’d like a glass of milk, Emma?”
During their two-hour sojourn on the Mount the tide turned, halving the distance from island to mainland. Now the motorboats picked up their passengers from the Mount and let them off at the outcrop of barren rocks that had formerly been in mid-bay. Now the path from those rocks to the sandy beach was clear and dry above the exposed mud floor of the bay. When they were once again on dry land, Rowan Rover said, “Bernard will now take you back to St. Ives and you will have a free afternoon and dinner on your own. Unless anyone wants to have a look at the caves. Susan?”