Death and Sensibility

by Elizabeth Blake

  Death and Sensibility

  A Jane Austen Society Mystery

  ELIZABETH BLAKE

  For my niece, Ariana “Bones” Farren, a young woman of great talent and accomplishments

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to my awesome agent, Paige Wheeler, as always. Deepest gratitude to Jenny Chen, Emily Rapoport and Melissa Rechter for their sage editorial advice, patience, and unwavering support.

  Thanks to Anthony Moore, for introducing me to the wonders of the Yorkshire Moors, always sharing my passion and sense of adventure—and to the staff of the Lion Inn, Blakey Ridge, for an unforgettable night, splendid meal, and wonderful gift of A Coast to Coast Walk, by Alfred Wainwright. Deepest thanks to Alan Macquarie, scholar, musician, and historian, for being such a gracious host in his glorious Glasgow flat, and to Anne Clackson, for being such a boon (and bonny) companion. Special thanks to my dear friend Rachel Fallon for her generosity and loyal spirit. And a big shout out to the baristas at Gatehouse Coffee in historic York, the most glorious coffee house I have had the pleasure of visiting.

  Thanks to Hawthornden Castle for awarding me a Fellowship—my time there was unforgettable—and to Byrdcliffe Colony in Woodstock, where I enjoyed many happy years of residency, as well as Animal Care Sanctuary in East Smithfield, PA, Craig Lukatch and the fabulous Lacawac Sanctuary, where so much of this was written. I can’t wait to return!

  Special thanks to my dear friend and colleague Marvin Kaye for his continued support, and for all the many wonderful dinners at Keens. Thanks to my assistant, Frank Goad, for his intelligence and expertise. Thanks too to my good friend Ahmad Ali, whose support and good energy has always lifted my spirits, and to the Stone Ridge Library, my upstate writing home away from home.

  Finally, special thanks to my parents—raconteurs, performers and musicians, who taught me the importance of art and the power of a good story.

  “It isn’t what we say or think that defines us, but what we do.”

  —Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility

  Chapter One

  The December wind whipped at the trees outside her cottage as Erin Coleridge lugged her battered gray suitcase from the bedroom closet. She hated packing. No matter the occasion, it was always exhausting to choose what to bring and what to leave behind. How could you know what you will need until the need arises? Consequently, she invariably overpacked.

  Determined not to fall into that trap this time, Erin pulled a couple of shirts from their hangers and tossed them into the suitcase. She would be away from her Kirkbymoorside book store and cottage for a week, but she could buy anything she needed in the much larger city of York.

  Tossed by the wind, the branches of the yew tree outside her window tapped at the panes, and she shivered at the sound. Weather on the North Yorkshire moors was unpredictable—sometimes mild weather lingered lazily well into November, but you could just as easily find yourself in an early snowstorm or torrential rains. Today, wind advisories had been all over the news. They’d been predicting over fifty-mile-an-hour gusts with heavy rain and Erin didn’t fancy driving down to York in a rainstorm. Worse, she knew her best friend, Farnsworth Appleby, would absolutely freak out about the weather. She hated storms. Many years ago, a tree fell on her car, and she had been spooked ever since.

  As if on cue, Erin’s landline rang. She reached for the receiver on the bedside table and cradled it to her ear while she continued packing.

  “Hello, Farnsworth.”

  “I just heard the weather report. Hurricane force winds, Erin. Hurricane force.”

  “They’re only predicting gusts of fifty miles per hour. Hurricane force would be seventy or more.”

  “Still,” Farnsworth said. “Maybe we should wait it out a day.”

  “Our reservation at the Grand York starts tomorrow, and at those prices, I’m not wasting a single minute. I’m packing now.”

  “You’re upstairs?”

  “Yes. In the bedroom.”

  “How did you know it was me, by the way?” asked Farnsworth. She sounded like she was chewing something. “You don’t have caller ID on that phone.”

  “I’m psychic.”

  “And I’m Maggie Smith.”

  “More like Dame Edna, I should think.”

  “This is nothing to joke about.”

  “I expected you’d be in a massive panic over the weather just about now.”

  Farnsworth sighed. “If there’s one thing I hate, it’s being predictable. It’s so dreary. Stop it, Willoughby! Leave Marianne alone!” Farnsworth had a large assortment of cats, all named after Jane Austen characters.

  “Willoughby?” said Erin. “Is he new?”

  “I got him from the shelter last week. Very handsome, but quite the cad. Always going after the females.”

  “Isn’t he neutered?”

  “He still fancies himself a ladies’ man. Stop it, Willoughby, or I’ll have to separate you! There,” she said. “That seemed to put the fear of God into him.”

  “You don’t really believe he understands English?”

  “Of course not. Elinor might, though … she’s pretty sharp.”

  “So are you excited about the conference?”

  “What if there’s flooding? And the wind—that little car of yours will fly around like papier-mâché.”

  “We can take yours if you like.”

  “You know I don’t fancy driving in bad weather. I’m just going for the food, you know. The restaurant is meant to be fabulous.”

  “I can’t imagine a little rain getting between you and lobster thermidor.”

  “I’ve been looking at the menu online,” Farnsworth said mistily. “Oak-smoked salmon, crab mayonnaise, fennel toast …”

  “Think of it this way. If we arrive late, that’s one day less of dining.”

  “The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good meal, must be intolerably stupid.”

  “Prudence won’t like hearing you misquote Austen.”

  “Then we won’t tell her.” Prudence Pettibone was a key member of the Jane Austen Society’s Northern Branch, and a good friend. However, she could be a bit fervent and was very competitive about her knowledge of Austen’s work. Farnsworth sighed, “I do hope the panels aren’t too boring. Which ones are you on?”

  “My first one is Feminine Identity in the Jane Austen Heroine.”

  “How very trendy. I’m doing Sense or Sensibility? Jane Austen and the Role of Reason in Contemporary Romance Fiction.”

  “What time shall I pick you up?”

  Farnsworth whimpered a little, “Are you sure we’ll be all right?”

  “It’s the first Jane Austen conference of its kind in the UK, and we’re the hosting society branch. What would it look like if we were late?”

  “It’s not just the two of us, you know. Hetty and Prudence will be there. And Jonathan. Mustn’t forget him,” she said slyly, referring to Erin’s recent flirtation with him.

  “Your first panel is tomorrow, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sure Prudence would jump at the chance to take your place.”

  There was a silence. Then Farnsworth said, “You can be really horrid, you know that?”

  Erin laughed. “I’ll pick you up at noon. We’ll have lunch on the way.”

  “I’ll be the one wearing the sou’wester and hip waders.”

  “Good night, Farnsworth.”

  After hanging up, Erin threw a few more things into the suitcase, then suddenly felt very hungry. Abandoning her task, she padded down the narrow stairs to the ground floor, where she puttered around in the little kitchen in the rear of the cottage that overlooked the stream. She could hear the brook burbling and
rushing outside the window, the water level higher than usual because of the storm. In the middle of summer, the stream was often reduced to a thin trickle, but now it sounded like a waterfall.

  “You’re not really hungry,” she muttered to herself as she grabbed a jar of Sainsbury’s crunchy peanut butter. “You’re just trying to avoid packing.” But the thought of peanut butter and pickles on toast made her stomach grumble, and she devoured it standing at the kitchen counter, surrounded by all the good and familiar things in her small but cozy kitchen, the walls painted bumblebee yellow. It had been her mother’s favorite color. Gwyneth Coleridge was the most cheerful person Erin had ever known, but that hadn’t saved her from the disease that devoured her from the inside out like an evil parasite. It was almost as if the sickness had fed on her energy and light. Erin wished her mother could see her little cottage by the stream, with its footbridge leading to the wide sweep of rolling meadows bordered by hedgerows.

  She also wished she believed in an afterlife. Though she sometimes fancied that she sensed her mother’s presence, Erin thought it was simply a manifestation of her own consciousness.

  “All right,” she muttered, yawning as she headed back upstairs. “No more procrastination.”

  It was near midnight when she finally finished packing, and after a bath in the lion’s paw tub, she fell into bed as the wind whistled and howled in the eaves outside her cottage. Snug under the blankets, she dug her feet into the down comforter and slipped into a deep, untroubled sleep.

  Chapter Two

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Erin said to Farnsworth as they entered the lobby of the York Grand Hotel Friday afternoon.

  “I’ll let you know when the circulation returns to my extremities,” she replied, lumbering behind her. Farnsworth was a rather large woman who usually carried herself gracefully, so Erin took the heavy stride as a reproach for being forced out in inclement weather. “Do you think you brought enough clothes?” Farnsworth asked, with a glance at Erin’s compact suitcase.

  “I always overpack, so I tried to travel light this time, she shrugged, taking in the spacious lobby with its inlaid marble floors, wrought iron railings, and elegant arches. “This place is quite something. I can see why it’s a five-star hotel.”

  “A splendid example of Edwardian architecture,” Farnsworth said. “Or so the guidebooks say.” The building really was beautiful. It was all red brick with long, elegant windows, gables, and cupolas. Ornate, but not overdone.

  A familiar voice floated across the marble lobby.

  “If adventures will not befall a young lady in her village, she must seek them abroad.”

  Erin turned to see Prudence Pettibone, flanked by her best friend, Hetty Miller. A more unlikely pair was hard to imagine—Prudence, short and frumpy, with dull brown hair and clothing that seemed to have been plucked from a jumble sale remainder bin—and Hetty, tall, slim, and decked out like a store window mannequin, with rouged cheeks and mascara so thick it appeared to have been applied by a bricklayer. She spent more on a single outfit than Erin spent on clothing in a year. Hetty and Pru were inseparable, though they argued frequently and competed compulsively. As co-chairs of the Conference Planning Committee, they had been at one another’s throats quite a bit over the past few weeks.

  “Hello, Pru—hi, Hetty,” Erin said warmly, glad to see them. For all their oddness, Pru and Hetty had been loyal friends to her since her arrival in Yorkshire less than two years ago. The four women met once a month for dinner, each taking turns hosting.

  “Hello, Prudence—grand master of the Austen quote, as always,” Farnsworth remarked. “Though you might find some competition within the ranks this week.”

  “If any one faculty of our nature may be called more wonderful than the rest, I do think it is memory,” Prudence replied with a little smile, no doubt intended to be mysterious, but which came off as smug.

  “You’re looking gorgeous as always,” Farnsworth told Hetty.

  “Thank you, dearie,” she replied, rewarding her with a glittering smile. “Isn’t this just too exciting?” she asked, adjusting her very short black leather skirt over knee-high matching boots. Even in this weather, she wore three-inch heels; her outfits were never designed for practicality. She gave her dyed crimson curls a shake. “I can’t wait to hit the spa. I’m going to get the massage and facial package.” She turned to Farnsworth. “I expect you’re going to the restaurant straightaway.”

  “I think we’re all quite keen on the food here,” said Erin.

  “Not Hetty,” Prudence replied. “She lives on wheat grass and kimchi.”

  “That’s absurd,” said Hetty. “I just have a fast metabolism. You’re not wearing your eyeglasses,” she said, peering at Erin.

  “She finally took my advice and got contacts,” said Farnsworth.

  “Well done, you,” Hetty said. “Mustn’t hide those nice blue eyes.”

  “You’ve done a wonderful job spearheading the organization of this conference,” said Erin. “I know how much work went into it.”

  “A lot of people lent a hand,” said Prudence. “We couldn’t have done it without your web mastery, posting it all over social media.”

  “Don’t forget Carolyn’s wonderful artwork,” said Farnsworth. Carolyn Hardacre, who taught at York University, was a talented artist, and had designed the logo and conference programs. Her husband Owen was president of the North Yorkshire branch of the Jane Austen Society.

  “Is she coming?” asked Pru.

  “I don’t think so,” said Erin. “She had family obligations.”

  “And Owen would never show up without her,” Farnsworth added.

  “Are you going to see that sexy detective of yours?” Hetty asked Erin.

  “If he’s around.”

  “Why wouldn’t he be around?” said Prudence.

  “His mother’s been ill. He’s been going over to Manchester to see her.”

  Hetty shuddered. “The traffic around Manchester is dreadful, especially at rush hour.”

  “Well, I’d like to go see my room,” said Farnsworth. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to check in.”

  “Good idea,” Erin agreed.

  The pert young woman at the concierge counter had made a show of busying herself during their conversation, but she had obviously been listening intently as she pretended to sort papers. Now she smiled sweetly as they approached.

  “Welcome to the York Grand Hotel,” she said, all polished teeth and glimmering red lipstick. Her name tag identified her as Tricia.

  “Why, thank you, Tricia,” said Farnsworth.

  She cocked her head to one side, her tight blonde curls brushing the shoulder of her starched uniform. “Is this your first time here?”

  “Yes,” Farnsworth replied. “Though hopefully not our last.”

  Erin glanced at her friend, hoping she wasn’t about to say something naughty; she had that look in her eye. Just to be sure, Erin gave her a gentle nudge in the ribs. Farnsworth emitted a little squeak.

  “Are you all right?” asked Tricia, her voice carrying just a hint of condescension.

  “It’s my lumbago,” Farnsworth replied. “Acts up from time to time.”

  “What exactly is lumbago?” said Tricia.

  “I have no idea, but mine is terrible in rainy weather.”

  Erin poked Farnsworth harder, which her friend ignored, smiling sweetly at Tricia. “You do have a lift, don’t you?”

  “Yes, indeed, though you can have a first floor room if you prefer.”

  Farnsworth shook her head. “Oh, no—I can’t bear the thought of people looking in the window at me. My ex-husband was a Peeping Tom,” she explained in response to Tricia’s bewildered look.

  Check-in concluded without incident, but as the four friends boarded the lift, Erin said, “Why were you so beastly to that poor concierge?”

  “Didn’t you see her eavesdropping on us?”

  “We made it rather difficult for her not
to overhear us,” Erin replied.

  “What do you mean?” asked Hetty.

  “Your voice,” said Prudence. “It could cut through glass.”

  “Rubbish,” Hetty retorted. She turned to Farnsworth. “Do I have a loud voice?”

  Farnsworth coughed delicately.

  “Well?” Hetty demanded.

  “The term ‘clarion’ comes to mind.”

  Hetty frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “It means you sound like a bloody trumpet,” said Pru.

  “Isn’t this your floor?” Farnsworth asked as the doors opened onto the third floor.

  “Yes. Come along, Hetty,” said Prudence.

  “Coming,” Hetty said, stumbling as her high-heeled boot caught in the gap between the door and the carpet.

  “Mind your step,” said Farnsworth, offering her hand.

  “Thanks—I’m all right,” Hetty replied, righting herself.

  “Don’t know why you insist on wearing heels at your age,” Pru muttered, but Hetty pretended not to hear. No one really knew Hetty’s age, and she did her best to keep it at bay, like a wary fighter facing a dangerous opponent. Rumor had it she had spent a small fortune on cosmetic surgery. Prudence gave her friend a hard time about the endless primping and posing, but Erin thought she secretly admired Hetty’s energy and style. No one could accuse Prudence Pettibone of having anything that remotely resembled style.

  Farnsworth had booked a suite on the fourth floor, and after helping her insert the key card correctly into the lock, Erin went up to her room one floor above. She had requested a gabled room on the top floor, and was glad the hotel had obliged. It was smaller than the ones on lower floors, but the slanted ceilings and the view more than made up for it. It reminded her of her childhood room in Oxford, where she had the entire floor to herself.

  Pulling back the sheer white window curtains, Erin was delighted to see the Gothic towers of York Minster across the River Ouse. York was a medieval fortified city and the multiple spires of the famed cathedral thrust at the sky like spears, as if the very air was a threat to the town’s security.