of the Royal Crescent Hotel, where Professor Joe Dougan ordered pre-dinner drinks. He and Donna were with their new friends from Zurich. They had met Marcus and Anne-Lise Hacksteiner in the outdoor heated plunge pool the previous morning. Few situations are more likely to get a conversation going than sitting toe to toe in a small round pool.
The Hacksteiners had been to a matinee at the Theatre Royal. "It was a whodunnit," said Anne-Lise, speaking English as if she had lived here for ever. "And rather well done."
"Did you guess the murderer?" Joe asked.
"Anne-Lise doesn't guess," said Marcus. "She likes to analyse the plot and arrive at the logical solution."
"And did you, Anne-Lise ?"
"Oh, yes."
"Get away!"
"But my logic was different from the logic of the writer."
Joe Dougan wasn't sure how seriously to take Anne-Lise. She didn't smile much. "You mean you picked someone else as the killer?"
"She insists her solution was superior," said Marcus. "Probably it was. I don't have that kind of brain. I took a wild guess."
"The least likely person in the cast?"
"Exactly."
"Let me guess. You were spot on?"
"No, I was wrong, too."
"You guys break me up." The more Joe saw of the Hacksteiners, the more he liked them. Rich as they obviously were, they didn't flaunt it. Joe had learned only by chance that they had the top suite in the hotel, the Sir Percy Blakeney, at nearly seven hundred pounds a night.
After the drinks were served, Donna said, "Well, I just wish we had chosen the theatre."
A muscle twitched at the edge of Joe's mouth. He said nothing.
Anne-Lise said graciously, "You were much more sensible. It was too nice an afternoon to spend indoors."
Donna shot a triumphant look at her husband. She had said the same thing to him earlier, and more than once.
As if he hadn't noticed, Joe said to Marcus, "I think you'll like this single malt."
"Come on, Joe," said Anne-Lise. "You can't keep us in suspense. How did you spend the afternoon?"
"Indoors, same as you. You did the whodunnit. We did the wheredunnit."
"The what?"
"The wheredunnit. When I go on vacation I like to seek out the places where creative things happened. It gives some focus to a trip. So in Vienna, we looked up the Mozart house. In Paris, the Rodin museum, and so on."
"And in Bath, Jane Austen?"
"Too easy," said Donna in a downbeat tone that the others did not yet understand.
Joe explained, "My modest ambition in this city was to find the Frankenstein house."
Marcus turned to face him, eyebrows pricked up, prepared to challenge the assumption.
Joe smiled.
"You did say Frankensteinl"
Joe gave a nod. "Where Mary Shelley wrote the book, back in 1816. Simple enough, you might think."
"But you are mistaken," said Anne-Lise in her prim, categorical style of speaking. "It was written in Switzerland. It is well known in our country."
Marcus chimed in, "If you want to see the house it is on the shore of Lake Geneva."
Joe raised his hands, feigning self-defence. "Fine. I'm not going to argue this one with you good folk. I know the story, how Shelley and Mary Godwin, as she was then—she was only eighteen—were entertained at the Villa Diodati by Lord Byron and his physician, Dr Polidori, and how the weather was atrocious and they were housebound, and Byron proposed that they each write a ghost story."
"And of course the woman's was the only good story of the four," said Anne-Lise, with a half-smile at Donna. "It came to her in a dream."
"Not exactly," Joe dared correct her. "It was not the result of a dream. Mary Shelley explained in the introduction that she was lying in bed awake when the images came to her."
"So it was a day-dream," said Donna, rolling her eyes.
"And I have to tell you that Frankenstein wasn't written in Geneva," Joe steadily pursued his point. "It had its conception there, yes. Then they returned to England. Shelley stopped off in London, leaving Mary to find rooms in Bath. She picked number five, Abbey Churchyard, and
The Hacksteiners had been to a matinee at the Theatre Royal. "It was a whodunnit," said Anne-Lise, speaking English as if she had lived here for ever. "And rather well done."
"Did you guess the murderer?" Joe asked.
"Anne-Lise doesn't guess," said Marcus. "She likes to analyse the plot and arrive at the logical solution."
"And did you, Anne-Lise ?"
"Oh, yes."
"Get away!"
"But my logic was different from the logic of the writer."
Joe Dougan wasn't sure how seriously to take Anne-Lise. She didn't smile much. "You mean you picked someone else as the killer?"
"She insists her solution was superior," said Marcus. "Probably it was. I don't have that kind of brain. I took a wild guess."
"The least likely person in the cast?"
"Exactly."
"Let me guess. You were spot on?"
"No, I was wrong, too."
"You guys break me up." The more Joe saw of the Hacksteiners, the more he liked them. Rich as they obviously were, they didn't flaunt it. Joe had learned only by chance that they had the top suite in the hotel, the Sir Percy Blakeney, at nearly seven hundred pounds a night.
After the drinks were served, Donna said, "Well, I just wish we had chosen the theatre."
A muscle twitched at the edge of Joe's mouth. He said nothing.
Anne-Lise said graciously, "You were much more sensible. It was too nice an afternoon to spend indoors."
Donna shot a triumphant look at her husband. She had said the same thing to him earlier, and more than once.
As if he hadn't noticed, Joe said to Marcus, "I think you'll like this single malt."
"Come on, Joe," said Anne-Lise. "You can't keep us in suspense. How did you spend the afternoon?"
"Indoors, same as you. You did the whodunnit. We did the wheredunnit."
"The what?"
"The wheredunnit. When I go on vacation I like to seek out the places where creative things happened. It gives some focus to a trip. So in Vienna, we looked up the Mozart house. In Paris, the Rodin museum, and so on."
"And in Bath, Jane Austen?"
"Too easy," said Donna in a downbeat tone that the others did not yet understand.
Joe explained, "My modest ambition in this city was to find the Frankenstein house."
Marcus turned to face him, eyebrows pricked up, prepared to challenge the assumption.
Joe smiled.
"You did say Frankensteinl"
Joe gave a nod. "Where Mary Shelley wrote the book, back in 1816. Simple enough, you might think."
"But you are mistaken," said Anne-Lise in her prim, categorical style of speaking. "It was written in Switzerland. It is well known in our country."
Marcus chimed in, "If you want to see the house it is on the shore of Lake Geneva."
Joe raised his hands, feigning self-defence. "Fine. I'm not going to argue this one with you good folk. I know the story, how Shelley and Mary Godwin, as she was then—she was only eighteen—were entertained at the Villa Diodati by Lord Byron and his physician, Dr Polidori, and how the weather was atrocious and they were housebound, and Byron proposed that they each write a ghost story."
"And of course the woman's was the only good story of the four," said Anne-Lise, with a half-smile at Donna. "It came to her in a dream."
"Not exactly," Joe dared correct her. "It was not the result of a dream. Mary Shelley explained in the introduction that she was lying in bed awake when the images came to her."
"So it was a day-dream," said Donna, rolling her eyes.
"And I have to tell you that Frankenstein wasn't written in Geneva," Joe steadily pursued his point. "It had its conception there, yes. Then they returned to England. Shelley stopped off in London, leaving Mary to find rooms in Bath. She picked number five, Abbey Churchyard, and
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