Missing Susan (13 page)

At one point, noticing the mention of Torquay on a highway sign, Frances Coles asked, “Are we by any chance going to pass the spot where Agatha Christie staged her disappearance in the Twenties?”

Rowan Rover, whose knowledge of English literature did not extend to the private controversies of mystery writers, met this query with a blank stare. “I know she went missing
for a week or so,” he said at last. “Somebody produced a movie based on the case. I don’t know where she took off from, though. She was born in Torquay, but I don’t think she lived there as an adult.”

“She disappeared near Guilford,” said Alice MacKenzie, who maintained that Agatha Christie’s work reached a plane of literary perfection to which Thomas Hardy could only aspire. “I’ve read two biographies of her.”

“Oh,
Guilford,”
said Rowan Rover, in tones suggesting that it might as well be Hoboken. “That’s practically on the outskirts of London. We’re nowhere near it.”

“What do you make of her disappearance?” asked Elizabeth MacPherson, grasping at this straw of a crime.

“Amnesia under a strain isn’t all that uncommon,” Rowan suggested.

“It’s more common if there has been a head injury,” said Kate Conway. “Personally, I’ve never seen a case.”

“Amnesia!” said Alice MacKenzie. “Ha!”

“I really know very little about the incident, but she was a very shy woman, wasn’t she? Hardly the sort of person to stage a publicity stunt.”

“I don’t think it was a publicity stunt,” said Alice, leaning forward and speaking in a stage whisper, so as not to disturb the sleeping Frances. “But I do think she did it on purpose.”

“Wasn’t her husband having an affair?” asked Kate Conway.

“Yes! And he had gone off to spend the weekend with his girlfriend,” said Alice triumphantly. “So Agatha crashes her car into a pond, leaves her expensive fur coat on the seat, and vanishes. The police assume foul play, of course, and guess who they suspect?”

“The husband,” sighed Rowan Rover. “They always do.”

“Right! He gets a grilling from the authorities, and his private life
and
the girlfriend’s name become front page news.
Hundreds of people are out combing the woods for Agatha’s body. It’s the nine days’ wonder of all of England.”

“Where was she?” asked Charles Warren, postponing his nap.

“In a fancy hotel in Harrogate, attending tea dances and reading newspaper accounts of her own disappearance,” Alice informed him. “If she hadn’t planned her disappearance, how did she happen to be carrying enough money for a two-week stay at an expensive hotel? And what name do you suppose she registered under?”

“The girlfriend’s,” said Rowan with a sinking heart. His second wife was just the sort of person who would have done that.

“Exactly! Agatha wasn’t ill. She was brilliant. She humiliated her rotten husband in front of the entire world. Serves him right!”

“And did he give up the other woman and go back to Agatha?”

“No!” cried Rowan, Charles, and Bernard in unison.

Alice regarded them with the look of an entomologist who has just identified their species. “You’re right,” she said evenly. “A year later Archie Christie divorced her and married the other woman.”

“But he probably wasn’t worth having anyway,” Kate Conway pointed out. “I know a plastic surgeon who’s just like that. He’s married two nurses so far and made them both miserable. Archie Christie sounds rather heartless to me.”

“True,” said Alice. “And at least Agatha made him suffer.”

“We’re coming into Torquay now,” Bernard told Rowan. “So you’re all going to tour this sneaky lady’s museum, eh?”

“Isn’t it thrilling,” said the guide, without any trace of enthusiasm. He was envisioning a Rowan Rover exhibit in a museum, should one be dedicated to his second wife, who,
fortunately, was not famous. The Rover Husband display would feature his most unflattering portrait (the hangover one, perhaps) with concentric circles drawn around it, and a list of his faults in easily readable red letters:
WEARS SAFETY PINS IN FLY.

With a sigh of resignation, he turned to his notes on Torre Abbey.

   Because of their proximity to the Gulf Stream, Cornwall and the coast of Devon enjoy a much warmer climate than most of the rest of Britain, and the south coast’s balmy beaches and palm trees had earned it the title of English Riviera. It was evident that Torquay was the holiday spot for a goodly number of Britons, because the road into the city was lined with large houses displaying bed and breakfast signs on their well-tended lawns.

Since the majority of people on the mystery tour were southern Californians, they were less impressed with Torquay than they might have been. Kate Conway was comparing the city to San Diego’s own island of Coronado and Elizabeth MacPherson, the representative of the other American coast, sniffed and said, “Virginia Beach.” Clearly the group preferred thatched cottages and half-timbered pubs to the twentieth-century bustle of a British seaside community, with its traffic and its commercialism.

“This looks very familiar,” said Nancy Warren, peering out at a motel with balconies and wrought-iron railings. “Doesn’t it remind you of San Diego, Charles?”

Her husband grunted. “Yeah, we could have seen this at home and saved six grand.”

While Bernard navigated through the late afternoon traffic, Rowan Rover consulted a city map and called out street names to look for in order to reach the abbey. Fifteen minutes and several orbits later, Bernard pulled the bus up to the curb on Falkland Road and said, “I don’t think there’s going to be
any place to park nearby. Why don’t I let you out here, and come back for you in a bit. All right?”

“Fair enough,” said Rowan, standing up and stretching. “It’s only a block up to the abbey. Ladies and Charles, we’re getting off here.”

As he marched them up the street toward the abbey, Rowan recited the particulars of the afternoon’s attraction. “Torre Abbey has belonged to the city of Torquay since 1930. Before that it was the home of the Cary family, and before that it was a monastery for …” He took a deep breath. “Premonstratensian Canons. Built in 1196.”

“What is … what you said?” asked Kate Conway.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Rowan assured her. “Some species of monk, I presume. Ask your guide at the abbey. They provide their own tours.”
And I shall wait out in the garden and smoke copious quantities of cigarettes in blissful solitude
, he finished silently.

A few moments later they turned the corner and came within sight of Torre Abbey. Very little of the original twelfth-century architecture remained, except some ruins away from the converted abbey. Most of the structure was a solid red-brick building with white-trimmed windows, reminiscent of an American elementary school. It certainly did not resemble the group’s idea of an eight-hundred-year-old edifice.

“And what is its connection with Agatha Christie?” asked Maud Marsh.

“Only that this is the city of her birth,” said Rowan. “And since this is the city’s museum, they have set aside a room in her honor. The abbey also has a restored Victorian kitchen that serves teas. Off we go.”

He bounded up the steps and into the spacious main hallway. Beside the door was an information desk, manned by a guard/ticket-taker.

“Good afternoon,” said Rowan briskly. “I believe you
have a reservation for a mystery tour of a dozen persons booked to see the abbey today.”

The man behind the counter glanced at a chart and assured the group that they were expected. “We haven’t any guides this afternoon, though,” he said. “We were terribly busy earlier in the month, and now they’ve all taken advantage of the lull to get a bit of time off themselves.”

“No guides!” Rowan looked stricken.

“Don’t worry. You can take them round yerself, sir. I have a sheet here that specifies what all the exhibits are. Everything is numbered so you can’t get it wrong. All right? Off you go, then!”

Rowan Rover, still parchment-pale and muttering under his breath, stalked off in the direction indicated by the guard, while the mystery tourists pattered happily in his wake.
Bloody ad-libbing. What if they ask me something not on this handout?
They entered a small room filled with ship models in glass cases. “Ladies and Charles, here we have a collection of ship models in glass cases, no doubt of sentimental importance to the folk of a coastal town,” said the impromptu guide in the hearty tone one uses to persuade children to eat asparagus. “Aren’t they neatly painted?”

The group dutifully admired the tiny ships for several seconds. Thereupon they proceeded to further exhibits. “Here we have one of the Cary family drawing rooms. It is called the Blue Room, perhaps because of its blue walls. That constitutes a guess on my part. This paper does not actually say that.” Rowan looked around. “The room contains a crystal chandelier, a fireplace, the sort of marble statue that unscrupulous Italian con men-cum-antique dealers used to sell to …” He checked himself in mid-editorial. “Never mind. Some sculptures. And some landscape paintings of the Christmas card school of art. Take a moment to admire it.” He ran his finger down the page of exhibit listings.

“My aunt Amanda would enjoy this room,” said Elizabeth. “She has several very much like it.”

“It doesn’t look like an abbey to me,” sniffed Frances Coles. “I have read
all
of the Brother Cadfael novels, and I know about twelfth-century monasteries.”

“I expect the family did extensive renovations,” said Martha Tabram. “People usually do when they buy an older home. We did. The Carys had over two hundred years of ownership in which to redecorate.”

“I wonder if it would be expensive to redecorate a place like this,” mused Susan. “We have some wonderful old mansions along the Mississippi.”

“I thought you lived in Minnesota,” said Rowan.

“I do. On the Mississippi.”

Right
, thought Rowan,
and I am king of the Belgians.
American geography had eluded him completely. “And I am sure that Minneapolis has museums just as fine as this one,” he said carefully.

“It does remind me of the Sibley House in Mendota,” said Susan, serenely unconscious of self-incrimination. “It was the home of Minnesota’s first state governor. Of course, it isn’t as old as this.”

“Perhaps if the Vikings had been more politically inclined, it could have been,” Rowan murmured. “Of course, then it would have been the Leif Erickson House.”

“I wonder if it would cost much to heat this place,” said Charles Warren, eager to change the subject.

His wife shivered. “To get it as warm as I’d want, you’d have to set fire to it.”

“Ah!” said Rowan Rover. “The guide sheet informs me that there is an exhibit of marble statuary through this passage in another small room. Supposedly by a local sculptor … nineteenth century … Ah, here we are …” He looked appraisingly at the conglomeration of carved figures jamming the tiny room. “Oh, dear, yes. He
was
a local sculptor,
wasn’t he? I believe his name was …” Rowan had lost his place on the fact sheet, so he improvised. “ … Fred Smith.”

“The
Fred Smith?” asked Elizabeth solemnly.

“No,” said Rowan Rover.
“A
Fred Smith.”

A few more rooms finished the ground-floor exhibits, and Rowan led them up a wide marble staircase festooned with paintings which, after the first shudder, he steadfastly ignored. “The Agatha Christie room is tucked away somewhere up here,” he muttered. “I suppose we’ll have to plow through more of this to find it, though.”

He poked his nose into one dimly lit room. “Ah!” he cried, turning to face his party. “There seems to be a real painting here. Come on, come in. That large picture over there is
The Children’s Holiday
by Holman Hunt. It is the showpiece of the collection.” He stepped back to what he hoped was out of earshot and murmured, “Dear God, I never thought I’d see Holman Hunt seem so exalted. I think they use him at the Tate to prop doors open.”

Frances Coles, who quite liked Victorian art, was gazing admiringly at the happy scene of a matronly woman presiding over a silver-laden tea table at an outing with her five children and their various pets. It was as exact as a photograph, and seemed to capture the children’s personalities in their varying expressions.

“You can tell
she
had domestic help,” said Alice MacKenzie, who was also studying the painting.

“I wonder if they had to cook all those things for the picnic every time Mr. Hunt came to paint some more of the picture,” mused Kate Conway.

Having already given Mr. Holman Hunt considerably more than his due, in Rowan’s jaded opinion, the guide shooed them out into another passageway. “Now this is more like it!” he exclaimed, catching a glimpse of the framed drawings that lined the corridor. “These are William Blake’s own illustrations for
Songs of Innocence.
Wonderful! I thought
these were in the Tate!” While the group congregated around the first few etchings, Rowan took another look at his crib sheets. “Reproductions!” he exclaimed. “The originals
are
in the Tate!” Seeing the questioning expression on the faces of his followers, Rowan forced a note of enthusiasm back into his voice. “But these are very good copies. Quite recognizable. And should you ever visit the Tate, you will know what to look for. Let’s move along, shall we.”

The next room proved to be the Carys’ dining room, formally decorated eighteenth-century style, with pale green walls and an ornate ceiling, all adorned with white bas-relief scenes of Roman figures and other ancient images.

“You have heard of the famous architect Robert Adam and the term
Adam room!”
Rowan solemnly inquired.

Eagerly, they all nodded that they had indeed.

“Well, this isn’t one.” He turned on his heel and walked out.

He was more enthusiastic about an unconverted part of the ancient building, with its thick stone walls and simple medieval lines. These rooms were used as workrooms for the servants. As they wound their way up the twisting stone staircase, Nancy Warren noticed a small slit in an alcove by the stairs. “What is this hole for, Rowan?” she asked. “It reminds me of a laundry chute, but it’s too small.”