Twenty minutes later, as he pretended to study the notice board in the hall next to the lobby, Rowan saw most of the tour group troop out of the hotel, chattering among themselves. Only the Warrens had not departed, which did not affect his plan in the least. Their whereabouts did not concern him. The important consideration was that Susan was gone, and with only four days left until the end of the tour, he could not afford to tarry any longer.
When the group disappeared from sight, Rowan strolled up to the registration desk and intoned in an impeccable Oxonian drawl, “I say, I wonder if you remember me from a quarter of an hour ago? Guide on the tour that checked in? One of the young ladies left her purse in the coach, and I’d like to put it in her room, if I may. I know you have bellmen who generally fetch and carry, but in this case I’d rather do it personally. The purse contains the young lady’s passport, you know, and a bit of cash. They will do it, these tourists. So careless. If I could just have the passkey to Miss Cohen’s room, I’ll pop right in with it and bring the key straight back.” His smile was dazzling. “Thank you so much.”
Fortunately the timid young thing at the desk did not notice that the guide was not carrying the aforementioned purse as he dashed off upstairs with the key to Room 307. He was, instead, carrying a screwdriver and a pair of needle-nosed pliers, but they were concealed in the pocket of his tweed jacket, well out of sight. Rowan had spent the weekend at home devising alternate, ever more bizarre and risky schemes for dispensing with Susan Cohen. He had returned to the tour, armed with various devices to implement those schemes-and a renewed determination to finish the task once and for all. A newly arrived stack of demands for payment and invective from yet another ex-wife had fueled this latest resolve to complete the contract-and thus to extricate himself from financial ruin.
As he hurried upstairs, he scarcely noticed the churchlike windows and the ornate ceiling designs above the Randolph’s main staircase. His mind was focused on the task at hand. God knows it will need concentration, he thought. Electronics is hardly my forte. He stopped in front of Room 307 and looked up and down the hall to make sure that no one else was lingering. Satisfied that he was unobserved, he slipped the key into the lock and let himself into the room. It was a small, nondescript single room with a view of an alley. The private bath was nearly half the size of the room itself. Barely glancing at the luggage still piled in the corner, Rowan took out his tools and headed for the bathroom. The light fixture over the sink, he decided. It’s the only thing she’ll be sure to touch. Carefully, he reached up and unscrewed the protective cover over the light. After several minutes’ tinkering with the wires, he was satisfied that he had made the correct modifications. Hurriedly he replaced the metal cover, wiped his fingerprints off everything with a hand towel, and left the room. Once downstairs, he waited until the clerk was talking on the telephone, with her back to him, before he strode over and placed the key on the counter. He was gone before she turned around. Perhaps she wouldn’t remember him at all, he thought-with more hope than conviction. Sighing in relief to have it over with, Rowan Rover wandered away in search of Chapters Cocktail Bar, where he would await further developments in a haze of cigarette smoke and double Scotches.
It was nearly six o’clock before the light faded and the shops closed, driving all the stragglers back to the safety of the hotel to plan their evening’s entertainment. Elizabeth MacPherson had met Kate Conway on Broad Street, in a gift shop specializing in Oxford sweatshirts, and they walked back to the hotel together.
“Maud went to Evensong with Alice MacKenzie and Frances Coles,” Kate told her. “Martha is seeing a friend from Oxford this evening, and Susan is still shopping.” She giggled. “You know that beautiful navy-blue coat of Martha’s? I saw Susan buying one just like it at Laura Ashley. She’ll probably wear it, too. I wonder what Martha will think of that.”
“Plenty, but she’s too well-bred to say anything,” said Elizabeth. “Dinner is out of our own pocket tonight, I suppose?”
Kate nodded. “Do you think Rowan would like to join us?”
“We could ask him. What time are you planning to go out?”
“In about an hour,” said Kate, glancing at her watch. “Shall I come and get you when we’re ready to leave?”
“Yes, do. I’m in Room 307.” She made a face. “Susan, being her usual impossible self, insisted that we change rooms because there’s a light outside her window that she was sure would disturb her sleep.”
Kate wrote the number on the back of the sweatshirt bag. “Okay, 307. Got it. I’ll see you around seven. Where do you suppose Rowan is?”
Elizabeth paused at the foot of the stairs. “Try the bar.”
After dialing the guide’s room and surveying the lounge where cream teas were served, Kate did indeed extend her search to the downstairs bar, where she found Rowan Rover seated at a tiny wooden table, blowing smoking rings like the Wonderland caterpillar.
“Hello, there!” said Kate, blushing a little at the memory of their last solitary encounter. “Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all,” he said graciously, glad for any distraction from the scenario in his mind.
“We were wondering if you’d like to go out to dinner with us in about an hour.”
Rowan raised his eyebrows. “We?”
“Yes, Maud and I. And Elizabeth. We thought you might be able to recommend a good restaurant. We thought we’d treat you to dinner.”
This enabled Rowan to recollect any amount of acceptable restaurants in the vicinity of Oxford. He spent several cigarettes detailing the virtues of each establishment and recounting stories of escapades at many of them during his student days. Kate listened with a wide-eyed expression of awe that he found almost as gratifying as the Scotch. Perhaps, he thought, if the Susan problem resolves itself neatly, I can forego my vow to Mrs. Thatcher after all.
As he finished his recital of restaurants, Kate glanced at her watch. “Golly!” she said. “It’s twenty to seven and I still have to change. Would you mind going up to get Elizabeth? I promised her we’d stop by, but I’m running late.”
“Certainly,” said Rowan, mellowed by the pleasant interlude with his favorite sedatives. “What is her room number?”
Kate’s lovely face went blank. “I forget. But I wrote it down somewhere.” She picked up her packages and began to examine them for pencil marks. “Let’s see… I met her in the sweatshirt shop. Here it is! Room 307.”
“Right. I’ll go and get her,” said Rowan, striding briskly away, as he wondered why that number sounded vaguely familiar. Finally, recognition overtook him and he stood for one frozen moment to let the calamity sink in. An instant later he was running down the hall toward the stairs, trying frantically to remember the first-aid treatment for electrocution. And what should he do if he knocked on her door and received no answer? It would look awfully suspicious to panic on so little provocation. He couldn’t ask for the passkey again.
“Hello. Rowan! Yoo-hoo!”
With a sigh of exasperation the guide turned around. “Not now,” he began. “I’m in a hurry.”
“All right,” said Elizabeth, waving him on.
Rowan stared. “It’s you!” To cover his gaffe, he said the next thing that came into his head. “You look ghastly.”
“So would you if you’d just been zapped by a light switch,” she murmured. She was about three shades paler than usual. She looked as if she might fall down at any second. “I came down to report it to the desk clerk.”