Death and Sensibility

by Elizabeth Blake

  “Hardly,” Erin replied, sitting down. “Shouldn’t we discuss how to proceed with the conference?” she asked, to forestall any more questions. “We did just lose the keynote speaker.”

  “Tragic death,” said Hetty. “Even if he was a total wanker.”

  “He was definitely the sort of person who makes enemies everywhere he goes,” Pru added. “Wait a minute,” she said, looking at Erin with wide eyes. “You don’t think—”

  “Oh, yes,” Farnsworth replied. “She very much does.”

  “Seriously?” Hetty said. “You think someone did him in?”

  “I think it’s within the realm of possibility,” said Erin.

  “Is that why you were talking to Sam?” asked Prudence.

  “He served Barry Wolf’s dinner last night.”

  At that moment, every female head in the room turned toward the entrance. Temperatures rose, hearts fluttered and beat faster, and bosoms shuddered with sighs as the object of all the attention sauntered gracefully across the room.

  “Jonathan Alder has arrived,” Farnsworth murmured. “Let the games begin.”

  “It’s each woman for herself,” Hetty said, licking her lips. Jonathan Alder had set hearts aflutter when he moved to Kirkbymoorside two years ago to teach at the middle school. He lost little time in joining the Jane Austen Society, where he was responsible for a sudden influx in female membership.

  “He fancies you,” Prudence told Erin.

  “I don’t know about that,” she replied as he approached their table.

  “But then there’s your sexy detective,” Farnsworth murmured. “What’s a girl to do?”

  “Hello, ladies,” Jonathan said, swiping a hand across his forehead to brush away a lock of dark wavy hair. Erin’s own heart beat a little faster as his blue eyes locked with hers. He was absurdly good looking, with soft pale skin and cheeks rosy as a milkmaid’s. He was only average height, but so well-proportioned he looked taller.

  “When did you arrive?” Prudence asked him.

  “Just a few minutes ago. What’s this about the keynote speaker suddenly dropping dead?”

  “Terrible, isn’t it?” said Hetty, batting her false eyelashes. One had come loose at one end, flapping precariously like a small black wing.

  After they filled him in on the details of Barry Wolf’s unexpected demise, Jonathan shook his head. “Rotten luck. What are you going to do?”

  “Carry on as best we can,” Hetty said. “Stiff upper lip and all that.”

  “Do we have a backup speaker?”

  “There are several people here who would do in a pinch,” said Prudence. “What about your new boyfriend?” she asked Farnsworth. “He’s an experienced lecturer.”

  “New boyfriend?” said Jonathan. “It appears I’ve missed quite a lot.”

  Farnsworth flapped her napkin dismissively. “Prudence is being whimsical.”

  Prudence sat up straighter and gave a little sniff. “Whimsicality is foreign to my nature.”

  “I only met the gentleman last night,” Farnsworth explained.

  “It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy—it is disposition alone,” Prudence declared.

  “Well done,” said Jonathan. “What’s it from?”

  “Sense and Sensibility,” Prudence said, dabbing smugly at the corner of her mouth with her napkin. She could turn the simplest gesture into a victory lap.

  “Really, must you always show off?” Hetty muttered.

  “Well, my ‘disposition’ is to have some food before I pass out from hunger,” Farnsworth said, rising from her chair. “Anyone else care to join me at the buffet?”

  “I will,” said Erin.

  “Why not?” said Jonathan.

  “Might as well,” Prudence said, hanging her ratty wool jacket on the back of her chair. It was scuffed and frayed, as if it had been chewed on by goats. Though she lived in a tidy little cottage not far from the center of Kirkbymoorside, Pru always looked as though she had come straight from working on a farm. “Are you coming, Hetty?”

  “Very well,” her friend replied with a sigh, as though she was doing everyone a great favor. Erin didn’t think Hetty had the naturally high metabolism as she liked to claim that she did. On the contrary, she rather thought that Hetty worked very hard to maintain her slim figure, and admired her for it. Erin was naturally thin, though she had noticed in the last few years she couldn’t eat the way she used to. An extra scone for tea meant an added mile of jogging the next day. She had come to the reluctant conclusion it was easier simply to avoid the scone.

  The buffet was a potential diet breaker, Erin thought with dismay as she surveyed the lavish arrangement of hot and cold dishes. Eventually, she settled on filet of Dover sole with rosemary roasted potatoes and fried baby artichokes, avoiding the béchamel sauce and opting for a slice of lemon instead. She did indulge in a spoonful of hollandaise, which looked too delicious to pass up. Her mother used to make it at home, and taught her how to slowly pour the egg yolks into the hot butter, so that they cooked without curdling.

  Erin felt a nudge at her elbow and turned to see Farnsworth, a plate in her hand, staring at the far end of the buffet.

  “Who is that?” she whispered.

  Erin followed her gaze to see an extremely short woman of early middle age. Other than her lack of height, there was nothing unusual about her. She had rather thick, light-brown hair, flecked with gray, which she wore in a kind of pageboy, tapered around her neck, with thick bangs in front. It befitted her pixie-like face, with its sharp little nose and pouty lips, marred by a rather recessive chin. Her protruding lower lip was the most prominent point in the architecture of her face, giving her a perpetually dissatisfied expression. Her outfit was unremarkable; she wore a light-blue dress sprinkled with tiny daisies and bumblebees. It was exactly the kind of thing you might see on any respectable British matron weekday shopping at Sainsbury’s or M&S.

  “Never saw her before,” Erin whispered.

  “Just watch,” said Farnsworth.

  The woman’s arm snaked toward the platter of stuffed mushrooms, but instead of putting the food on her plate, she tucked it quickly into the folds of her voluminous handbag.

  “Did you see that?” said Farnsworth.

  “Yes. What on earth—?”

  “Keep watching—she’s not done yet.”

  While they watched, the woman managed to steal a roast chicken breast, sautéed beets, and half a loaf of French bread, all secreted away in the enormous satchel on her arm.

  “You’re not suggesting we rat her out?” said Erin.

  “Good heavens, no! It would embarrass her terribly. And you never know about people—in spite of her respectable appearance, she may be truly destitute. Besides, think of all the entertainment we’d deprive ourselves of.”

  “But is it fair to the restaurant?”

  “She’s only here for a few days. I’m sure they can spare it.”

  “Are you watching the buffet thief?” said Jonathan, coming up beside them.

  “Yes,” said Erin. “Do you know her?”

  “I’m beginning to wish I did.”

  Hetty sauntered by holding a salad plate, a few string beans and cucumbers scattered across it like an abstract painting. “That’s Winnifred Hogsworthy.”

  “Hogsworthy by name, Hogsworthy by nature,” Farnsworth murmured. “Oh, no—she did not just put a custard in her bag.”

  “At least it wasn’t chocolate,” said Jonathan, pouring a generous serving of hollandaise onto his eggs Benedict. “How do you know her?” he asked Hetty.

  “I met her this morning at the gym.”

  “Looks like she worked up quite an appetite,” Farnsworth remarked. “Where are you sitting?” she asked Jonathan.

  “Nowhere at the moment.”

  “Come join us.”

  “That’s the best invitation I’ve had all day.”

  “I doubt that,” Hetty muttered under her breath.

&nbs
p; “You’ll need to steal a chair,” said Erin.

  “I think I’m up to that,” he replied, with a lopsided grin that caused a lock of hair to fall over one eye. Erin’s legs went a little hollow. She wondered if he practiced in front of a mirror. She could practically feel the jealous stares boring into her back as he followed her back to their table.

  “What else do you know about her?” Erin asked Hetty as they took their seats.

  “She lives in Sussex. Took a train up because she doesn’t drive,” Hetty said, picking at her meager serving of vegetables.

  “That’s a long trip,” said Jonathan.

  “She said she finished the sweater she was knitting and started a new one.”

  “What else?” asked Erin.

  Hetty poked at a piece of lettuce, pushing it around the plate with her fork. “Apparently she was Barry Wolf’s grad student years ago.”

  Erin did a quick calculation. Winnifred Hogsworthy had to be at least forty, so that meant Barry Wolf might be even older than he looked.

  “He gets around,” Farnsworth remarked. “Or at least he did.”

  “Erin thinks he was murdered,” Prudence told Jonathan.

  “Really? Why?”

  Erin put down her fork, feeling the heat of his gaze. “It just feels fishy. What was he doing in the cloakroom in the middle of the night? Why does he seem to have so many enemies? Why is his ex-wife here with their son? What’s he doing married to a woman less than half his age?”

  “Sadly, that’s not so uncommon,” Farnsworth remarked.

  “And what is the story with that young assistant, Stephen?” said Hetty. “He’s the same age as Wolf’s wife. Is something going on between them?”

  “Exactly!” said Erin. “There’s a lot that doesn’t add up.”

  “What are you going to do?” asked Jonathan.

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “In the meantime, don’t let your food get cold,” said Farnsworth, digging into a creamy pile of fettucine Alfredo. “If you’re going to solve a murder, you’ll need your strength.”

  Erin gazed out the long, elegant French window onto the broad avenue in front of the hotel. On the other side of the street, the famous medieval wall snaked its way around York, enclosing the city in its cold embrace. Beyond its ancient bricks, the River Ouse flowed sluggishly, in no hurry on its journey to the sea. A few snowflakes cascaded lazily from the sky as a crow darted past the window, its black wings casting a brief shadow on the glass.

  Erin took a bite of sole, the flaky white flesh dissolving in her mouth. Suddenly ravenous, she speared a baby artichoke, then gulped down a large piece of roasted potato. Farnsworth was right—she would need her strength. Watching the dancing snowflakes, Erin wondered what else she might need to solve a murder.

  Chapter Eight

  In the end, they all agreed Judith Eton would be the best choice for keynote speaker if she was willing, and Prudence agreed to ask her. Farnsworth expressed satisfaction at the fact that Judith was Barry’s ex-wife, calling the choice “poetic justice.”

  That afternoon, the weather intensified. Scattered flakes of snow gathered into flurries, then showers, finally becoming a wall of white obscuring the view of the city. Soon the hotel was enveloped in a cocoon of snow, a soft, wet blanket of fat flakes that stuck to everything. Workers were sent out to shovel walks and driveways, but as soon as they returned, the pavement was already covered with a thin layer of falling snow.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Erin said to Farnsworth as they stood in the hall outside the meeting rooms, waiting for Erin’s two o’clock panel, Jane Austen and Her Literary Influences. They had an excellent view of the storm through the tall windows lining the corridor.

  “As long as you don’t have to go out in it,” Farnsworth said with a shudder.

  “Where’s your spirit of adventure?”

  “In my hotel room, warming my slippers and preparing a cup of hot chocolate.”

  “You have hot chocolate in your room?”

  “Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?”

  Erin smiled. “Of course—you brought your own. And tiny marshmallows?”

  “Without them, hot chocolate is a sad and desolate beverage.” Farnsworth glanced at her watch and at the closed door of Jorvik. All the meeting rooms had names relating to the city in some way—Jorvik, for instance, was the original Viking name for York. “This panel is running late.”

  “You don’t have to attend this one just because I’m on it. You must have better things to do.”

  “Tragically, I do not. Please don’t rub it in.”

  “I have a feeling your schedule is about to fill up quickly,” Erin said as Grant Apthorp emerged from a meeting room at the end of the hall.

  “He is attractive, isn’t he?” Farnsworth whispered as he approached them.

  When he saw them, Apthorp broke into a grin. His broad, even teeth were a few shades whiter than normal. Erin wondered if it was the result of cosmetic dentistry, though he didn’t look like a man given to such vanities.

  “What a pleasant surprise,” he said, standing next to them. His physical presence was undeniable—solid as a boulder, with his massive shoulders and large, thick-jawed head. He reminded Erin of a Saint Bernard—friendly, attentive, exuding good will. “It’s much nicer out here,” he added, wiping his brow. “That little room was rather stuffy.”

  “What was your panel on?” asked Farnsworth.

  “Jane Austen and Female Agency in the Nineteenth Century.”

  “How very politically correct.”

  “Oh, dear,” he said with a wry smile. “Trying too hard, am I?”

  Farnsworth shrugged. “Was it interesting?”

  “It was, actually.”

  “I’d like to remind you that title was my idea,” Erin said.

  “And a jolly good one it was,” Grant replied. “I learned quite a lot.”

  “Looks like you’re up,” Farnsworth said to Erin, as the door to Jorvik opened. Audience members trickled out as the staff set up the front table for the next panel. “Good luck moderating.”

  “Oh, you’re the moderator, are you?” said Grant.

  “No one else wanted to do it, so I volunteered.”

  “Are you on this one as well?” he asked Farnsworth.

  “No. I just came along to lend moral support.”

  “I don’t suppose you could be persuaded to join me for a cocktail instead?”

  Farnsworth frowned. “Bit early, isn’t it?”

  “Tea, then?”

  “Go on,” said Erin. “I’ll be fine.”

  “But—”

  “You can watch the snowstorm from the comfort of the restaurant.”

  “They do a lovely tea here,” Farnsworth said wistfully. “Looks like you have good attendance,” she added, watching the crowd of people file into the room.

  “You see? We don’t need you,” said Erin.

  “Need her for what?” said Jonathan Alder, popping out of Bootham, the conference room next door.

  “Moral support,” Erin replied.

  Farnsworth’s face fell when she saw Jonathan. “You’re on this one as well?”

  “Someone dropped out, so I stepped in.”

  “This is Grant Apthorp,” Erin told Jonathan. “He’s—”

  “A leading nineteenth-century literary scholar and historian. I’m an admirer of your work,” he told Apthorp, extending his hand. “Jonathan Alder. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “The pleasure is mine,” Apthorp said, wrapping his meaty hand around Jonathan’s.

  “I read Art and Commerce: Literature and the Ascension of the Middle Class twice.”

  Apthorp laughed. “Well done. My publisher could barely get through it once.”

  “Maybe I should stay,” said Farnsworth, looking at Jonathan.

  “Oh, go have tea,” said Erin.

  “Very well, but you must tell me all about the panel later.”

  “Don’t
be silly,” Erin called over her shoulder as she and Jonathan followed the press of people into the conference room.

  The panel went smoothly until the time came for remarks from the audience. Jonathan was witty and charming, gaining more than a few devotees among the females in the room. A fat man in the back row advanced the notion that Jane Austen was actually a man, which set several people’s teeth on edge.

  A thin woman with yellow teeth and long gray hair snorted loudly. “And I suppose Christopher Marlowe wrote all of Shakespeare’s plays.”

  “As a matter of fact,” he replied, “I’ve written a scholarly article on the subject.” Clad in a brown leather vest and matching Indiana Jones–style hat, he appeared to be dressed for an African safari. The only thing missing was a leather whip hanging from his belt.

  “That’s ridiculous,” muttered an older man in the front row. He looked like an Oxford don, with his old-fashioned, slightly ratty jacket, complete with leather patches on the elbows. Erin imagined him at his desk in a cluttered office overlooking a college quad, a mahogany pipe tucked between his lips, and realized she missed her father.

  “What do you say we stick with the subject of the panel?” she said. “Anyone have a comment or question about Jane Austen’s literary influences?”

  A hand went up in the back and she recognized Winnifred Hogsworthy. Erin hadn’t noticed her earlier and wondered if she had come in after the panel had started. It wasn’t unusual for people to slip in and out halfway through, to catch as many panels as they could, and Winnifred was so short she was easy to miss.

  “You have a comment?” Erin asked.

  “A question, actually. I was wondering what the panel members thought of the theory that Jane Austen was poisoned by a literary rival.”

  “That’s a new one on me. Where did you hear that?”

  “I read it somewhere—can’t remember where,” Winnifred replied.

  “Did they specify which rival allegedly poisoned her?” asked Jonathan.

  “Not that I recall. Now that I say it out loud, it does sound a bit dotty, doesn’t it?”

  “You shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss these things,” said the man in the Indiana Jones outfit. “There’s more mischief afoot than anyone realizes.”