Free Missing Susan by Sharyn McCrumb

unsolved; at least a good many people were acquitted, rightfully or not. Elizabeth enjoyed second-guessing the expert witnesses in the vintage trials. How
did
Adelaide Bartlett get corrosive chloroform down her husband’s throat without leaving a trace? Did the man on the green bicycle murder pretty Bella Wright on a country road near Leicester? Did Ethel LeNeve know that her lover Dr. Crippen had murdered his wife when she ran away with him to Canada?
    Elizabeth was delighted at the prospect of discussing these crimes with Rowan Rover. She felt that she knew him already.After all, they had about a hundred mutual
friends
, most of whom had ended up on the gallows for the crime of murder. True, Rover had seemed nervous when she tried to discuss true crime with him earlier, but she put that down to a natural shyness on his part, and she was sure that his reserve would dissolve after everyone became better acquainted, especially if he was pressed to discuss his pet subject. Elizabeth decided she could help their diffident guide overcome his nervousness by discussing murder with him at every possible opportunity.
       At seven o’clock Rowan Rover changed his clothes and decided that he could probably do without an evening shave. He opted for a last cigarette instead. It was time to meet the troops. He supposed it would be a good idea to get better acquainted with the lovely Susan: useful to know whether she was afraid of heights, what she drank, and so on. Rowan Rover’s greatest fear was that his susceptibility to attractive women would be his undoing. He pictured himself like the huntsman in Snow White, falling on one knee before fair Susan Cohen, telling her that her wicked uncle wished her dead and urging her to flee into the forest so that he would not have to kill her. He had a feeling, though, that besides the probability that she would not believe a word of it, such altruism might be hazardous to his own health, as well as to his financial well-being. While there might indeed be a shortage of assassins in Minneapolis, Rowan had no doubt that, if double-crossed, the resourceful Mr. Kosminski could locate one elsewhere, and that no expense would be spared in enabling the thug to track down Rowan himself and kill him in the alleys of Whitechapel or the lanes of Cornwall. Anywhere, really.
    He looked at his watch. Time to go down for the glass of sherry and to learn more about the other tourists in the party. Elizabeth MacPherson, the Scot with the southern drawl,was a forensic anthropologist. He must discover more about that. Could she just identify bodies from skeletal remains, or could she also figure out cause of death, if she happened to be on the spot when one occurred? Just his luck to get a bloody medical vulture on his tour. And the Conway girl was a nurse. Who else was along for the ride? A mortician? A coroner? A bloody police inspector? Rowan reflected that he was about to express more polite interest in a group of tourists than he had ever exhibited before. He hoped they appreciated his efforts.
    As he flipped off the light switch, he took one last look at the dark cathedral, silent beneath a pale oval moon. He thought he detected a definite smirk etched on the lunar surface.
       In the Wessex lounge two semicircular sofas had been reserved for the mystery tour participants. A low table held a bottle of sherry and the requisite number of glasses.
    Rowan Rover waited until everyone was present before addressing his charges. “Now,” he said, “suppose we go round the group and get everyone’s name—and perhaps a word from each of you about how you happened to come on the tour, and what you’d like to see.” He smiled at Charles Warren, who was no longer advertising the governing skills of Erik Broadaxe. He was now looking considerably more distinguished in a navy jacket and tie. “Suppose we start with you, Charles. No one’s likely to forget who you are.”
    Charles Warren reddened a bit, and it