Missing Susan by Sharyn McCrumb Page A

boxes atop that wall. We have most of the early monarchs of England. Westminster Abbey has many of the later ones.”
    “Do you ever open the boxes?” asked Elizabeth, hoping for a professional perusal of a royal skull. Examining the suture closures of William the Conqueror would be even better than waving at the present Queen from a distance of ten feet, her only royal encounter thus far.
    “No,” said the guide. “We never open the boxes.”
    A disappointed silence followed before the guide resumed his lecture. “Besides providing us with these boxes of royal bones, Bishop Fox has other claims to fame. He founded the college of Corpus Christi at Oxford and he served as Secretary and Lord Privy Seal to Henry VII.”
    Everyone nodded politely.
    “I can take you down to see the crypt if you like,” he offered.
    This cheered them up immensely.
    Alice MacKenzie, after wandering about the choir enclosureexamining the carvings, had strayed farther afield. She called out, “Look what I found!”
    The others turned to see her pointing to a simple stone slab, located beneath the tower in the very center of the cathedral. “It’s King William Rufus!” she announced.
    “This afternoon we’re going to visit his death scene,” Elizabeth told the guide.
    The old gentleman cleared his throat. “Ah … hmmm. It was in Winchester Cathedral that Mary Tudor married Philip II of Spain in 1554. This marriage later gave Philip some claim to the throne of England and resulted in his sending of the Spanish Armada to reinforce that claim.”
    “William Rufus was murdered, you know,” said Elizabeth happily. “It’s unsolved.”
    After this exchange, the old gentleman became so distracted that he had to be reminded to show the group the grave of Jane Austen as they were leaving the church.
       After a picturesque but tedious walk-through of Winchester College, whose gates lay a few hundred yards from the cathedral, the group was temporarily disbanded for lunch, money-changing, or whatever other necessities suggested themselves to the ladies and Charles. They met again shortly before one o’clock in the lobby of the Wessex, where a smiling Rowan Rover awaited them, notes in hand.
    “Good afternoon. Everyone behaved this morning, I trust? No going round saying ‘We have two of those at home,’ or making the vicar an offer for the altar silver?”
    Wisely leaving the murder discussion unmentioned, they swore that they had behaved in an exemplary fashion. Then they allowed themselves to be shepherded aboard the bus for the afternoon’s outing to the New Forest. They still occupied the front half of the vehicle, sitting two by two, like good schoolchildren. Rowan Rover took up his accustomed front row seat next to the coach door. Elizabeth, who obviouslyconsidered herself the tour’s other murder specialist, slid in beside him. Susan Cohen sat alone in the other front seat and directed most of her remarks to Bernard, who pretended to be inordinately occupied with driving.
    The day was bright and sunny, too warm even for a sweater: perfect weather for exploring the country lanes of rural Hampshire. Bernard eased the coach out of the parking lot. The coach rumbled slowly through the narrow streets of Winchester and headed for the A303 motorway south. A few miles outside the city, they would pick up the A31, which would take them southwest, bypassing Southampton, and in an hour’s time they would be exploring the winding lanes of the New Forest.
    “We will, of course, return to the hotel tonight for dinner and our second night’s stay. Meanwhile, to start off this afternoon’s jaunt, I must tell you a thing or two about the New Forest,” said Rowan Rover, leaning into his microphone like a rock star. “It isn’t new—and it isn’t a forest.”
    “I’m not surprised,” said Maud Marsh. “The British are always misnaming things. At lunch today they gave me a 7-Up and tried to tell me it was lemonade.”
    Kate Conway