Murdering Americans

by Ruth Edwards

  ‘Excuse us for a minute, Jack,’ said Rachel. ‘I need to talk to Robert.’

  The baroness nodded and they withdrew.

  ***

  ‘You’re in luck,’ said Rachel. ‘And, as is often the case with luck, your good luck is at the expense of someone else’s bad.’

  ‘Very good that, Rachel,’ said Amiss. ‘It’s so elliptical it’s almost Troutbeckian.’

  ‘My mother has had a mild stroke,’ said Rachel, ‘probably partly brought on by that ridiculous wedding.’

  ‘Ridiculous? It wasn’t ridiculous. I enjoyed it.’

  ‘A tip, Jack,’ said Amiss. ‘Rachel had a really rough time over the wedding. This is not the time to disclose that you hadn’t paid attention sufficiently to have grasped that even though you were told about it repeatedly. If I were you, I’d shut up and let her talk.’

  The baroness nodded obediently.

  ‘It’s not life-threatening, but obviously she’s very upset. So I have to go home and we have to postpone the rest of our European Grand Tour.’

  ‘I suggest you commiserate, Jack,’ said Amiss.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. Sorry. Put my insensitivity down to jet-lag.’

  ‘That’ll be a first,’ said Amiss.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear about your mother, Rachel,’ said the baroness dutifully. ‘And I’m sorry you have to call a halt to your travels.’

  ‘Very good, Jack. Now carry on, Rachel.’

  ‘I can’t say I’m happy about seeing Robert going into what sounds like mayhem, especially if it turns out that he might fall victim to a psychopathic sociologist.’

  As the baroness opened her mouth, she saw Amiss, behind Rachel’s back, pressing a finger to his lips.

  ‘We’re driving to Bratislava tomorrow morning,’ said Rachel, ‘and the plan was to leave the van there and fly back to London.’

  ‘But…?’ asked the baroness hopefully.

  ‘I didn’t marry Robert to cage him and I can see his nostrils flaring with excitement. If it’s only for two or three weeks, I’ll lend him to you and soldier on without him. Just please try to return him only slightly shop-soiled.’

  ‘My dear Rachel,’ said the baroness, getting up and clasping her to her bosom. ‘I will not forget this sacrifice.’

  ‘I, of course,’ said Amiss, ‘have no say in this whatsoever.’

  ‘Come, come, Robert,’ said the baroness. ‘That’s a slight exaggeration. You may choose our route. Now let’s go to reception and I’ll organise the tickets to Indiana.’

  Chapter Ten

  ‘There’s an extraordinary message from Betsy,’ said the baroness, removing the phone from her ear.

  They were sitting in a departure lounge at O’Hare. ‘Is she not going to be able to meet us?’ asked Amiss, looking up from his Goodkind novel apprehensively.

  ‘No, no. It’s not that. She’ll collect us all right. But she says the Provost and the Goon are dead.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘To be precise, they’ve both been shot by a mad Muslim and Helen’s been stabbed to boot.’

  ‘Why would a mad Muslim want to murder the Provost and her minder? I can see why he might reasonably want to kill you, but….’

  ‘And why I might reasonably want to kill him, but, at times, Islamists, to use the correct terminology, do move in mysterious ways their murders to perform. You certainly can’t accuse them of not being inclusive. Atheists, agnostics, Jews, Christians, Hindus, Muslims, Schmuslims. It’s all the same if you’re doing it for Allah.’

  ‘Can you ring Betsy and get some more info?’

  A metallic voice cut in shouting about embarkation. ‘They’re calling the flight,’ said the baroness. ‘It’ll keep.’

  ***

  Betsy’s face lit up when she saw the baroness, who embraced her chastely. ‘Right. Let’s go.’

  ‘Could you spare the time to introduce me to Betsy, Jack?’

  ‘Can’t you do it yourself? You’re so prissy. Oh, all right then. This is my friend Robert Amiss, Betsy. He’s come to our aid all the way from Slovakia.’

  ‘Is that in Europe?’ asked Betsy, as they shook hands.

  ‘It is,’ said Amiss. ‘To the north-east of Austria.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Betsy,’ said the baroness, noticing her blank look. ‘Let’s go. You can tell us about everything when we reach the car.’

  ***

  Betsy told her story holding tightly to the baroness’s hand.

  ‘Let me get this right, Betsy. Someone walked into the Provost’s office at four yesterday afternoon, shot her and Gonzales dead, and then pinned a note to her chest with a knife.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘And nobody heard this happen?’

  ‘No. He must have used a silencer.’

  ‘Any suspects?’

  ‘The cops are working on it.’

  ‘What did the note say?’

  ‘They haven’t released it, but according to the paper….’ Betsy began to cry. ‘I don’t know how to tell you this….’

  ‘Calm down, Betsy. Calm down. You won’t be able to drive if you’re in this condition. And we’d rather not spend the night in a car park.’ The baroness fished out a voluminous red spotted handkerchief and passed it over. Betsy mopped her eyes, blew her nose, and gulped a few times. ‘I’m OK now, Lady Troutbeck. I just got so scared about you.’

  ‘About me? Why should you be scared about me?’

  ‘The Sentinel’s in my bag. You’ll see.’

  Amiss took the newspaper from the bag Betsy had tossed into the back seat. ‘FREEMAN U PROVOST SLAIN: COPS SUSPECT MISTAKEN IDENTITY,’ he read out. ‘Helen Fortier-Prichardson, Provost of Freeman University, has been slain by an unknown assailant in her office. Her assistant, Dr. Ethan Gonzales, was cut down in the same shocking attack. Police think he was going to her aid when the killer mowed him down.

  ‘In a sickening twist, after shooting Provost Fortier-Prichardson in the head, the killer stuck a note to her chest with a knife. The police say they won’t be releasing the full text yet, but it is believed it said she was executed for being an infidel who showed public disrespect to Allah.’

  Amiss put down the paper. ‘Sounds rather like a copy-cat murder.’

  ‘You mean like Theo van Gogh in Amsterdam? I doubt it. I can’t think who in New Paddington has even heard of Amsterdam.’

  Amiss picked up the Sentinel again. ‘President Dickinson said this morning, “The death of Provost Helen Fortier-Pritchardson along with that of our other beloved colleague, Dr. Ethan Gonzales, will be a cause of great grief to us all at Freeman U. But we will fight on to achieve their idealistic goals. I am appalled at the allegations made by the Provost’s killer. Helen was a sensitive and caring woman who lived and breathed respect for diversity and believed there was no greater sin than to cause offence to another. There is something very wrong here. This must be a case of mistaken identity.”’

  Betsy gave a loud sniff. ‘It’s you he was after. You could be dead. It’s so lucky….Oh, no. I like don’t mean that. Well, I sort of do.’

  ‘It’s OK to be Pollyanna on this, Betsy. Not being a sentimentalist, I won’t pretend I think either of them a loss to the world. Au contraire. And I’m certainly glad glad glad it was them rather than me.’

  ‘No qualms about being the cause of her death, Jack?’

  ‘Stop talking rubbish, Robert. Mike and Vera may have been killed because they were investigating Gonzales at my request, as Helen and Gonzales may have been killed because someone confused her with me. In the first case, my guess is Gonzales is responsible. In the second, the cause of their death is lethal Islamist fruitcakery whipped up by that incendiary nut Jimmy Rawlings. There must have been someone in the audience who got over-excited.’

  ‘But if he’d been in the audience, he’d have known the Provost wasn’t you.’

  ‘Maybe he couldn’t tell whites apart. What do I know? If they really were after me, maybe the murder was dele
gated to an outsider.’ She yawned. ‘There’s no point in speculating till we’ve got some hard facts. I’ve two questions, Betsy. Is dinner set up?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Lady Troutbeck. I called Stefano from the airport to tell him the plane was on time.’

  ‘And how are you getting on with Jane Austen?’

  ‘Oh, she’s really really cool. It was so exciting I finished it yesterday and then I went straight to the library and took out another one. It’s called Persuasion.’

  ‘That’s my girl,’ said the baroness. ‘I’m proud of you. I’ll have you on George Eliot soon.’

  Betsy’s face fell. ‘Hey, Lady Troutbeck, of course I’ll read whatever you tell me, but could I stick to female authors for a while?’

  ***

  ‘There’s another thing, Edgar. Marjorie’s just come here to deliver Horace. She says she came back early from lunch yesterday and found someone in my office. The cage door was open and Horace was inside but the guy was cursing and mopping up blood from his hand. When he saw Marjorie he took off.’

  ‘Did she call the cops?’ asked Brooks sharply.

  ‘Yes. The description wasn’t too good—just a tall young white guy in a hoodie and sunglasses, but they got a DNA sample. You can guess what this means.’

  ‘Gonzales had planned something like the horse’s head episode in “The Godfather”?’

  ‘Yes. That’s certainly what Marjorie thought, which is why she took Horace home with her, for which I’m profoundly grateful, since someone broke into my hotel room that evening. There being no Horace, he began to embark on cutting up my clothes. Fortunately, he was interrupted early on by a chambermaid, who saw him run from the bedroom and out the sitting-room door. By the time reception raised the alarm, he had disappeared through the kitchens.’

  ‘I’m mighty perturbed about this, Jack,’ said Edgar Brooks. ‘I know you’re a tough woman, but you’re not used to this kind of thing.’

  ‘Not to people trying to decapitate my parrot, that’s true.’

  ‘Or to homicidal maniacs gunning for you, assuming you were the target and not the Provost.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve more experience of that sort of thing than you might imagine, Edgar.’

  ‘I’m real unhappy. I’d like to drop everything and come up to look after you….’

  ‘But you’re absolutely not going to. I know you’ve got to do that trip to London. I’ve got my friend Robert here now. I’ll get the university or the cops to provide some security. And I’ve got my Colt to keep me warm. Oh, and I’ve seen a copy of your Edgar Junior’s letter to the Provost in my defence and it’s excellent. What a shame I missed the pleasure of seeing how she and Gonzales reacted.’

  ***

  ‘Did you sleep properly?’

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ said Amiss. ‘And breakfast looks almost as good as last night’s dinner, Jack. I don’t know what you’ve been complaining about. So far, American food seems fine.’

  She shot him a withering look.

  ‘Beverages! Beverages! Beverages!’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Horace, shut up or say something else for a change.’ She turned back to Amiss. ‘I’m pleased he’s safe and sound, but I’m in a slightly querulous mood and he’s adding to it. He’s resolutely refused to learn his Chattanooga Choo-Choo, but he won’t drop either the bloody beverages or the train from his repertoire. Neither of which I encouraged him to learn.’

  Horace put his head on one side. ‘VRC, VRC, VRC,’ he said, in a passable imitation of Brooks.

  ‘So Horace has joined our great revolutionary movement,’ said Amiss. ‘Now victory is truly within our grasp. After all, he’s the first of us to have drawn blood.’

  The baroness took an apple from the fruit bowl, cut a small piece, peeled it, and gave it to Horace. ‘That’ll keep him quiet for a while.’

  ‘Any news about today’s activities?’

  ‘Betsy’s taking us to the office first. Marjorie wants to give the three of us new mobile phones that will enable us to communicate with each other without fear of being bugged by agents of the markedly reduced Axis of Evil.’

  ‘Or indeed, agents of an angry Allah.’

  ‘Indeed. Rather more threatening when you come to think of it.’

  ‘One question, Jack?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It was Gonzales you wanted revenge on for the deaths of Mike and Vera. Now he’s dead, doesn’t that change things?’

  She glowered. ‘Gonzales was just the paramilitary wing of the Axis. The survivors are just as guilty. And if I’ve anything to do with it, they will pay for what he did. And pay heavily. Understood?’

  ‘Understood.’

  Her phone rang.

  ‘Yes….yes…yes….We’ll be with you shortly….Yes….Yes….Good….Good.’ She rang off. ‘Marjorie says I’ve got meetings with the cops and with the President and the Dean and she’s managed to fix up appointments for you with each of the VRC quartet at Warren Godber’s. He’s picking you up at my office to take you there himself.’

  ‘What’s happening to Horace?’

  ‘He’s probably out of danger now the Goon’s dead, but Marjorie’s going to look after him just in case.

  ‘Now I’ve told you what to do. You’ve to suss out what the VRC leaders are like individually, what they think they’re up to and what they’re capable of.’

  ‘Yes, yes. You’ve already given me full instructions.’

  She paid no attention. ‘Marjorie’s told them you’re my right-hand man and they can trust you implicitly. And you’ve got to suck up to Godber. When you’ve done that we’ll talk strategy.’

  ‘Is that it? No news from the front?’

  ‘Except that the VRC have passed their first test. Under instructions to rustle up students for counter-complaints, and to communicate with Edgar’s son, apparently they’ve done the business. A couple of dozen students have complained about being harassed by Jimmy Rawlings. I’m looking forward to seeing how that’s gone down with the Axis.’

  ***

  ‘So why did you get involved, Sue-Ellen?’

  They were sitting in Godber’s garden, sipping iced tea, which Amiss was trying hard to learn to like.

  ‘I got really mad last St. Valentine’s Day.’ Sue-Ellen leaned back in her chair, stretched out her long brown legs and ran her fingers through her curly hair. ‘Yep. Really, really mad.’

  Amiss raised an enquiring eyebrow.

  ‘Do you know about The Vagina Monologues?’

  ‘Not a lot. Angry talking vaginas don’t do much for me. I’ve read enough about it to know I don’t want to see it.’

  ‘It’s a cult on campuses here. Gets performed every St. Valentine’s Day to raise money for women’s charities. I went to it, and I hated it.’ She paused. ‘No, I didn’t hate it. I loathed and despised it. It was gross. It made me want to barf. And it was banal and preachy and pressed all the right feminist buttons.’

  ‘So you’re not a feminist?’

  ‘Not the kind of feminist that’s a feminist these days. I’d have been out campaigning for equality in my grandma’s day, but that’s all so over. Of course I’m all for liberating oppressed women abroad. But it’s different in America. I like guys. They’re my friends. They’re so not the enemy. Sure, of course I’m against violence to women, but The Vagina fucking Monologues carries on as if men were nearly always brutes and women always victims.’

  She sat up and poured them some more iced tea. ‘It was boo to heterosexuality and hurrah for lesbians. There’s a monologue in it called “The Little Coochie Snorter That Could.”…’

  ‘Sorry? I don’t recognise the term.’

  Sue-Ellen looked slightly embarrassed. ‘If I tell you it begins with the woman describing how as a kid she impaled her ‘coochie snorter’ on the bedpost…?’

  ‘Ah, I get it. How delightful.’

  ‘Then it goes on to describe an adult dyke seducing a sixteen-year-old with the help of vodka. We’re supposed to cheer.
Apparently in the original version she was thirteen and the adult at one stage said “If it was rape, it was good rape.” Yet they want guys arrested if they haven’t got a contract to prove an adult woman said yes.’

  ‘Modern feminists do seem a bit prone to double standards.’

  ‘I hate double standards. I really hate them. They’re an insult to our intelligence.

  ‘Anyway, three years ago Freeman agreed like lots of other campuses that Valentine’s Day was now to be known as V-Day. That’s another thing I hate. I loved what Camille Paglia—she’s one of my heroines—said about it. It was something like that these people were turning Valentine’s Day, the one holiday celebrating heterosexual romantic harmony, into a grisly memorial to violence against women.’

  ‘Is there a fully fledged nation-wide V-Day movement?’

  ‘Oh, sure. And yes, it does raise useful money for charity, but it does awful harm along the way. A lot of dumb women have bought into the idea that men have stopped women talking about their vaginas and so any celebration of their genitals is one in the eye to the oppressor. They’re all obsessed with raising women’s self-esteem.’

  She shook her head violently. ‘I’m so sick of hearing that. Where I come from, you don’t esteem yourself until you’ve done something worth esteeming. Like behaving decently or doing some hard work. This campus is full of people who think self-esteem is a human right.’

  ‘So what happened on V-Day?’

  ‘A lot of really disgusting stuff that made me ashamed to be a woman. Flyers were left all over the campus saying things like ‘My vagina is flirty,’ some of the kids dished out vagina-shaped lollipops, sold “vulva cookies” and “Vagina Warrior” T-shirts and some ran around nearly naked carrying a red plastic vagina nearly fifty feet high labelled “Cunt-fest.” Oh and the Dean chaired a workshop called “Down with Paternalism: A Vagina’s Right to a Dick-free Orgasm.”’

  ‘Anyone think of responding with a performance called Penis Patter?’

  ‘Not at Freeman. The guys are too cowed. But at a Rhode Island university conservatives satirised V-Day with a Penis Day, a performance of The Penis Monologues, flyers saying things like “My penis is hilarious”—and they had a mascot called Testaclese.’