Besides, there was no point in getting despondent about a few minor financial and professional setbacks. As soon as he performed his small service for Aaron Kosminski, all would be well. He could do whatever he liked. Fix the boat. Take a year off and write a book at his leisure. Vacation in the sunny Caribbean. Were such worldly luxuries really worth the life of the fair young Susan Cohen? he pondered, gazing up at the spire of St. Mary’s. Oh, yes, he told himself. Cheap at twice the price.
When it was nearly time for the afternoon tea scheduled at the Randolph, Rowan wandered back along the high street, dismayed by the ceaseless blur of high-speed traffic along the road. Susan had a point about the modern-day disturbance of the academic peace. Perhaps the city ought to consider restricting some of the downtown streets to pedestrians only, as Winchester had done.
As he joined a clump of shoppers at Broad Street about to cross over to St. Giles, he noticed Susan Cohen a few yards in front of him. She was surrounded by a knot of people, still bundled up in her new navy wool coat, and she was chattering nineteen to the dozen, oblivious to her surroundings as usual. By the time Rowan saw that a red city bus was coming, he could measure his planning time in fractions of a second.
Resolutely he pushed his way through the package-laden pedestrians, head down like a charging bull. When he saw the back of the navy coat in front of him with no obstacles in between, he took a deep breath for courage, put out his hands, and pushed.
With a shout of alarm, she went down, inches from the front wheel of the oncoming bus, which somehow managed to swerve out of the way, horn blaring. There she lay facedown in the street, surrounded by horrified shoppers who were going off like air raid sirens.
“Gee, Martha,” said Susan Cohen. “Are you okay?”
By the time good Samaritans had helped Martha Tabram to her feet and dusted off her soiled coat-no longer identical to Susan’s-Rowan Rover had melted into the fringes of the crowd without anyone having seen him. He crossed the road and wandered into a shop, where he observed the drama in the street from the anonymous vantage point of a tie rack.
He saw that Martha was unable to walk unassisted. She had not been seriously injured, thanks to the bus driver’s phenomenal reflexes, but apparently she had twisted her ankle in the fall. True to form, though, she was not displaying any obvious signs of distress. Her calm, dignified countenance was paler than usual, but it registered no emotion. She seemed to be ignoring the ministrations of Susan Cohen, who was hovering at her side like a small terrier attempting to chivvy a marble statue.
As the procession inched out of sight, Rowan slipped out the door of the department store and resorted to a circuitous series of back routes to find his way to the hotel.
When he arrived, the other members of the tour were already assembled in the parlor around a laden tea table, wolfing down pastries and discussing the latest stroke of misfortune to befall the group. Elizabeth MacPherson looked somewhat distressed. He wondered if it was the lingering effects of the electric shock or philanthropic concern for a fellow traveler. Martha, he noted, was not present, but Susan was-reciting her version of the events through a mouthful of cucumber sandwich. Her eyes shone with self-importance. She was apparently oblivious to the real intent of the accident.
“It’s the uneven pavement in these streets,” she insisted. “Not that Martha could see where she was walking, of course, because the street was absolutely packed, and I expect she was paying pretty close attention to what I was telling her about that Colin Dexter novel.”
Not bloody likely, thought Rowan. If she’d been listening to you all afternoon, she might have dived under that bus on purpose.
Later that evening, after too many pastries and cups of tea had robbed her appetite for dinner, Elizabeth MacPherson retired to her room-and finally wrote more than a two-line postcard. Since her new husband was still incommunicado on the high seas, she reverted to her lifelong habit of confiding in her brother back in Virginia.
Dear Bill,
The ghouls on wheels, as you are pleased to call this very sedate mystery tour, have nearly finished their trek through the south of England. Since my last postcard, we’ve seen Hereford, Ruthin in Wales, Shrewsbury, Minster Lovell, and now Oxford. You will be glad to know that I have taken very few photographs, so you will have no slide show to dread at future family gatherings.
Tomorrow we return to London for a few days’ sightseeing, including the Jack the Ripper tour, which I am greatly looking forward to. That is one of Rowan’s specialties. He’s our guide, and he’s marvelous on true crime. We’ve had several inquests a few centuries after the fact. Unfortunately for your struggling law practice, all the criminals we’ve studied are dead, and not in need of the services of a new law school graduate who works cheap. I hope you are managing to catch a few ambulances in Danville.
For a while tonight, though, I thought you might have to defend me on an assault and battery charge, but I managed to keep my temper and did not slug the woman, much as she deserved it. No doubt you are not wondering what I am talking about, but I’ll tell you anyway.
I was sitting in the parlor of the Randolph Hotel, waiting for everyone else to turn up for tea, when this apparently friendly English lady came over and started chatting me up. This Mrs. Pope-Locksley lives in Oxford; she just comes to tea at the Randolph for fun, I suppose; or possibly to bait the Americans. I suspected nothing; she seemed nice enough. Ha!
So she asks me where I’m from, and I said Virginia, and she starts going on about Alexandria and Fairfax, and all the other bedrooms of D.C. No, I told her, I live in the Blue Ridge, close to Tennessee and eastern Kentucky. That set her off. “Eeee-oow,” she says in that little toffee voice, “Appa-lay-cha.” And she goes on for what seemed like a week about the primitive people living there, and what gun-toting barbarians we all were. Apparently, the old bat mistook Deliverance for a documentary!
I wasted a lot of time protesting. You know, “I live in Appalachia, and I have a Ph.D. and my brother’s an attorney.” And “Pearl Buck is from West Virginia, and she got the Nobel Prize for literature.” And “Actually, the homicide rate in the mountains is quite low. It’s Richmond that’s dangerous, and it’s on the coast, where the English settled.” Waste of breath. I don’t think she heard a word I said. She droned on and on about what a wild and savage place it was, and then she called a friend over, and they asked me if we had electricity and indoor plumbing at home!
Fortunately, the Warrens arrived just then and rescued me, but I was close to tears for half an hour. Oxford has been a great shock to me. All my life I’ve thought of it as a center of culture and learning, and in one day I discover that they sell master’s degrees like a matchbook diploma mill, and that people in Oxford can be just as ignorant and rude as people from anywhere else.
Aside from the boorish Mrs. Pope-Locksley, the rest of the tour has been delightful, although somewhat restrictive on shopping opportunities. And fraught with bad luck. We seem to have had more than our share of accidents. First, our guide almost falls off a sixty-foot precipice in Cornwall, and then a lovely woman from Colorado becomes ill and has to fly home. Yesterday and today we had two mishaps! I tried to turn on the light switch in the bathroom and got a severe electric shock. If I’d tried it with wet hands, I might be dead. And then, Martha Tabram, the Canadian surgeon’s wife, fell in the street and was almost hit by a bus. She has turned her ankle so badly that she has to leave the tour as well.