Death and Sensibility

by Elizabeth Blake

  There was a knock on the door. Erin opened it to see a slight young man in a bellman’s uniform holding an enormous bouquet of flowers.

  “Ms. Erin Coleridge?”

  “Yes.”

  “Delivery for you. Shall I put them inside?”

  “Uh, yes, thank you,” she said, rifling through her purse in search of a tip.

  “Ta, Miss,” he said, tipping his hat when she handed him a couple of pounds.

  She read the card on the flowers.

  “Welcome to York. Hope these aren’t too ‘Austentacious.’—P. Hemming”

  “Oh,” she groaned. “How long did it take you to come up with that one?” Detective Peter Hemming had confessed early on his fondness for bad puns (though, Erin wondered if there was any other kind). Still, as her mother always said, you take the bad with the good if you want to have any people at all in your life. “These must have cost a bundle,” Erin murmured, putting the flowers on the dresser. “And on a policeman’s salary.”

  She had barely spoken to him since he concluded the Kirkbymoorside murder investigation in late October, much less seen him. Erin had been nervous at the thought of coming to York, where he lived. If he didn’t have time to see her here, the only reasonable conclusion was that he wasn’t interested, in spite of the obvious chemistry between them.

  As she unpacked, Erin thought about the politics of sexual attraction. Her mother, for all her energy and strong personality, had been surprisingly conservative in that respect. She discouraged Erin from pursuing boys, insisting that “males enjoyed the thrill of the hunt.” Thrill or not, if Erin liked someone, she had no qualms about making the first move. But with Peter Hemming, the situation was complicated. They had met while he was the lead detective overseeing a homicide investigation in which Erin was a potential suspect, so their relationship—such as it was—was a delicate dance, an avoidance of impropriety.

  But now with the case solved (mostly thanks to her), things were simpler—weren’t they? Did he resent her intervention, because she was ultimately responsible for solving what was, after all, his case? Or was she the one avoiding further intimacy? She contemplated all of this as she took her copy of Sense and Sensibility from her suitcase. Erin was rereading it, and was a bit taken aback at how well she understood Elinor, with her distrust of sentiment, her reliance on reason. Erin suspected her mother’s untimely and shocking death made her shy away from emotional involvement, but was that too easy an answer? After all, even Elinor found love eventually, as all good Austen heroines do.

  If only real life fell into place as smoothly as it did for characters between the covers of romance novels, she thought, putting the book on the bedside table. She puttered around her room, unpacking and examining the various amenities. The flat-screen television was ample and the room was large enough for two armchairs and a small settee at the foot of its queen-size bed. There was a well-stocked minibar, which she intended to avoid. She was unaware of how much time had passed before there was another knock on the door. Erin opened it to see Farnsworth, dressed to the nines in a deep-blue evening frock.

  Farnsworth frowned. “Why aren’t you dressed? It’s almost time for the meet and greet.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s nearly four thirty. Cocktail hour starts at five.”

  “Sorry—I lost track of time.”

  “We agreed to be early, seeing as we’re the hosting branch.”

  “You go ahead—I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  Erin quickly slipped on a slinky black dress and heels, applying some mascara and a bit of rouge. The tower clock high atop York Minster was just chiming the hour as she headed downstairs.

  Chapter Three

  On the way to the party, Erin stopped by the conference bookstore to pick up her name badge and attendance packet, including the panel and event schedule. The bookstore was set up in one of the smaller meeting rooms, and had been organized by members of the Society’s Southern Branch. Tables of books lined the walls, and included Jane Austen novels, works by her contemporaries, as well as historical studies, nonfiction pieces, and books by conference attendees. She was amused to see there were even a few copies of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. There was also a section where people sold other wares such as period clothing, baked goods, herbs and spices which Jane Austen might have eaten, and other Regency era items, like fancy canes, gloves, hats, and ladies’ fans.

  A few people were gathered in the 1906 Bar when she arrived, but Erin didn’t recognize anyone from the Society’s North Yorkshire Branch. The décor was reminiscent of an exclusive London club, in muted grays and burgundy with inlaid parquet flooring.

  “First round is on me,” said Farnsworth, beckoning to her table in the middle of the room. She looked resplendent in her deep-blue, off-the-shoulder evening dress and creamy silk shawl, her dark hair in loose curls around her neck. “What would you like?”

  “You go ahead,” said Erin. “I’m just going to pop into the loo. I forgot to put on lipstick.”

  “You’re pretty enough without it.”

  “As long as we’re trading compliments, you look fabulous.”

  “I do, don’t I?” Farnsworth said with an angelic smile, and headed off to the bar.

  On her way to the toilet, Erin spied a young couple embracing in a secluded corner of the corridor leading to the cloak room. When they saw her, they quickly disengaged, and the young man, who was very blond, hurried away, nearly bumping into her as he passed. He muttered an apology and rounded the corner quickly, nearly colliding with a waiter carrying a tray of hot hors d’oeuvres. Erin did not get a good look at the girl, who retreated into the cloakroom, but thought she was wearing a hotel staff uniform.

  When Erin returned, Farnsworth handed her a tall glass of tawny liquid topped with a slice of pineapple.

  “It’s one of their signature drinks.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “Rye whiskey, Frangelico, pineapple, lemon, toffee syrup … I forget what else. Here, try it.”

  Erin took a sip of the concoction. She expected it to be too sweet, but the lemon juice cut the sugary syrup, and the Frangelico gave it a nutty flavor. “Brilliant,” she said. “Maybe I’ll order one. What’s it called?”

  “Alice in Wonderland.”

  “I never really fancied that book. Too weird. Even as a kid, I didn’t get the point of it all.”

  Farnsworth patted her arm. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

  “And then it turned out to be all a dream, which I hate. Good illustrations, though.”

  “I’m going to get you one of those drinks,” said Farnsworth.

  “You don’t need to—”

  “You can buy the next round,” she said, and headed toward the bar.

  It was just after five, and the room was already filling up. Looking around, Erin saw mostly unfamiliar faces. There hadn’t been much communication between the various branches of the Society—until now, of course. More people had signed up for the conference than she expected—the Grand was completely booked, with spillover to other York hotels. Many of the attendees were members of various Jane Austen Society branches but according to Prudence, there were also a fair number of people who just liked Jane Austen or the Regency period.

  Someone brushed against her, and Erin turned to see a striking young woman with ebony skin and lustrous, almond-shaped eyes.

  “Sorry,” the woman said. She wore a long fitted black jacket over cream-colored fitted pants and a high-necked lilac blouse. The outfit vaguely resembled a Regency gentleman’s clothing.

  “No worries. I’m Erin Coleridge,” she said, extending her hand.

  “Khari Butari,” she said. Her grip was firm, her hand cool and dry. Erin was suddenly worried her own palms were sweating, as they did sometimes when she was nervous.

  “Your name is familiar,” she said. “Are you a filmmaker?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I knew it! I saw your documentary a
bout Senegal—Girls of Dakar.”

  “Then you are one of a very select few,” Khari said with a wry smile.

  “It was wonderful. I learned so much about Senegal. What a fascinating place.”

  “You are very kind.”

  “She is not,” said Farnsworth, handing Erin her drink. “But she is honest. Hello—I’m Farnsworth.”

  “Khari Butari.”

  “Khari is a filmmaker,” said Erin.

  “Are you making a film about Jane Austen?” asked Farnsworth.

  “Actually, I got a grant to make a documentary about her life.”

  “That’s quite a change of subject from Girls of Dakar,” said Erin.

  “I’m interested in female agency, and Jane Austen made an impact on the world at a time when most women were dependent upon male relatives for their survival.”

  “Speaking of agency, what are you drinking?” said Farnsworth. “I’m buying the first round.”

  “What are you having?” said Khari.

  “A wicked concoction called Alice in Wonderland.”

  “Parfait. Sounds perfect.”

  “Be right back,” Farnsworth said, pushing her way through the increasingly dense press of bodies.

  “I’m going to grab a seat while I can,” Khari said, sinking into a plush burgundy armchair.

  “I’ll join you,” said Erin, sitting opposite her.

  “Isn’t that Barry Wolf, the keynote speaker?” Khari said, pointing to a short, balding, middle-aged man standing at the bar.

  “And his much younger wife,” Erin added, eyeing the attractive young woman on his arm.

  It was hard not to stare at such a mismatched couple. She was sleek and svelte, her straight black hair shiny as sealskin. She looked like a ’30s French movie star. Short and unathletic, with pasty skin and an unsuccessful comb-over, Barry didn’t even look like her father. He looked like her accountant.

  “Pru and Hetty said he was a pain in the—neck,” Erin said, glancing at Khari, who smiled.

  “Do not worry about using bad language in front of me,” she said. “My mother swore like a drunken sailor.”

  “Pru said he complained about everything. She was regretting inviting him in the first place.”

  “But his biography of Jane Austen was brilliant. Did you read it?”

  “Absolutely. It won the Baillie Gifford Prize.”

  “I like his previous book even better,” Khari said.

  “Jane Austen and Her Contemporaries?”

  “Yes. It was fascinating.”

  “We thought we were lucky to book him for this conference, but—”

  “Great writers aren’t always equally wonderful human beings.”

  “Exactly,” said Erin.

  At the bar, Barry Wolf put an arm around his wife, who was chatting with a slim, black-haired man closer to her own age. The gesture was remarkably possessive.

  “Who’s that young man talking with Mrs. Wolf?” Erin asked Farnsworth when she arrived with Khari’s drink.

  “I think that’s Barry’s assistant, Stephen Mahoney. Barry told Hetty and Pru he was bringing his ‘secretary.’ He’s quite the looker, isn’t he? Someone to give Jonathan Alder a run for his money.”

  “He is attractive, in a neurasthenic kind of way.”

  “‘Neurasthenic’? How positively nineteenth-century of you,” Farnsworth said.

  “I know what she means,” Khari said. “He looks like something out of a Poe story. What does he use on his hair—motor oil?”

  Stephen Mahoney’s thick black hair was so heavily slicked down it stuck to his skull as if it had been glued there. It emitted an unnatural oily sheen, glistening beneath the room’s soft track lighting. He wore a tight-fitting black suit that hugged his narrow frame, snug as a straitjacket.

  “And that suit,” said Erin. “It’s so tight he can barely breathe.”

  “That’s all the rage these days,” Farnsworth said breezily. “The boys like to look as if they’ve been poured into their clothes.”

  “It only works if you’re really, really thin,” said Erin.

  “Which shouldn’t be a problem for you,” Farnsworth remarked.

  “I hope the society members aren’t paying for Stephen’s room,” said Khari.

  “No fear of that,” said Farnsworth. “We could barely scrape together the funds to cover Barry’s.”

  “What’s his wife’s name again?” asked Erin.

  “Luca,” said Farnsworth. “She’s Hungarian.”

  “Mail order bride?” asked Khari.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Pretty odd couple.”

  Erin raised her glass. “Here’s to a successful conference.”

  “Cheers,” said Khari.

  But Erin’s attention was already taken by the subtle drama at the bar. The body language was unmistakable. Luca Wolf was leaning into Stephen Mahoney, laughing, her head thrown back in what was literally a throat-baring gesture, while he said something that they both obviously considered witty. Her forehead was shiny her lips were parted so invitingly that it was almost shockingly obvious. Stephen wore a smug little smile, his body slightly inclined toward hers with his shoulders thrown back.

  Barry Wolf bore an expression of such pure malice that Erin could feel his rage all the way across the room. It was hard to believe the other two were unaware of it. He tightened his grip on his wife, pulling her to him in an almost violent gesture.

  Watching them, Erin wondered what sort of man they had engaged to be their keynote speaker.

  Chapter Four

  “I see you’re looking at our guest of honor and his wife,” Farnsworth remarked, leaning back in her chair. “I know women like her are supposed to be a trophy, but I always wonder what men like him think people are saying behind his back.”

  “Probably, ‘I wonder what she sees in him’?” said Khari.

  “‘There goes another gold digger and her fool.’”

  “Steady on,” said Erin. “You are talking about our keynote speaker. He is a literary celebrity.”

  Farnsworth sighed. “I hate it when you’re right. Fortunately, it doesn’t happen too often.”

  Khari laughed, showing perfectly symmetrical, pearly teeth. “I can see you’re really good friends.”

  “How so?” said Farnsworth.

  “Only very good friends could insult one another so casually.”

  “Wait ’til she meets Hetty and Pru,” said Erin.

  “Oh yes,” Farnsworth agreed. “They’re really good friends.” She stood up. “I’m going to powder my face.”

  As she turned, a waiter carrying a tray of appetizers brushed by, catching her shawl on the edge of the tray. Caught off balance, Farnsworth stumbled and lurched forward, twisting her ankle. Erin gasped as she fell, but her fall was intercepted by a pair of strong arms. Erin looked up to see a tall, solidly built man with a strong, square face and a sweep of steel-gray hair.

  “All you all right?” he asked in a deep voice.

  “I—I’ve just twisted my ankle a bit,” Farnsworth said, gritting her teeth.

  The waiter hovered over her, looking very distressed. He was slight, with a long nose, tiny mustache, and curly brown hair. “I’m so sorry! Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Quite all right, thank you. Please don’t worry.”

  “Let’s get you sorted,” the tall man said, gently helping her up. Farnsworth was not a small woman, but he lifted her back into her chair as if she were a sylph. He was about the same age as Barry Wolf, but unlike the other man, his stature and presence commanded respect. “Could you fetch a bag of ice?” he asked the waiter, who scurried off quickly. “You mind if I take a look at that?” he asked Farnsworth.

  “I don’t think it’s broken,” she replied.

  “Still, best to have a look just to be sure.”

  “All right.”

  Was she blushing? Erin wondered.

  He knelt and examined her foot and lower leg. Erin had to admit;
Farnsworth did have nice ankles, shapely and delicately tapered. Her own mother dismissed women with thick ankles as having “peasant legs.”

  “It doesn’t appear to be broken,” he said, straightening up. “Still, best to keep it elevated,” he added, pulling over a footstool and placing her leg gently on it. “Does it hurt?”

  “Not much. I’m just embarrassed.”

  “It could happen to anyone,” Khari said, just as the waiter returned with a bag of ice.

  “The bartender saw the whole thing and had this ready,” he said, giving it to the tall man, who placed it carefully on Farnsworth’s ankle. “Again, I’m so sorry.”

  “Not your fault, Sam,” she replied, glancing at his name tag. “I’ll be fine, and you have things to do.”

  He nodded and gave a little bow before darting off into the crowd.

  The tall man remained standing where he was. “Is this seat taken?”

  “It is now,” Farnsworth replied with a sweep of her arm. “I’m Farnsworth Applebee.”

  “Grant Apthorp,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it lightly.

  “Thank you so much for—for—”

  “Coming to her rescue,” Erin finished for her.

  He smiled majestically. “It’s not often one has the chance to save a beautiful woman.”

  Farnsworth made a gurgling noise that Erin had never heard before. It appeared to be some version of a giggle. “How very genteel,” she said.

  “I’m Erin Coleridge, and this is Khari Butari,” said Erin.

  “Pleased to meet you. Isn’t Khari usually a male name?”

  Khari gave him a wry smile. “My parents wanted a boy.”

  “How fortunate their wish was not granted.”

  “How did you know it was a boy’s name?”

  “I’ve spent some time in Senegal. Not as much as I’d like, alas.”

  “Are you the same Grant Apthorp I heard quoted on a BBC documentary about Jane Austen?” said Erin. “From Cardiff University?”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “I saw that!” said Farnsworth. “Have you really translated Austen’s books into Welsh?”

  “Some of them, yes.”