“Hello again,” he said, settling into the comfortable leather armchair next to Erin. “Making any progress in your investigation?”
“What do you mean?” asked Erin.
He smiled. “Everyone knows you’re looking into Barry’s death. The police might not think it was murder, but word around says you do. I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said to Farnsworth. “I’m Stephen Mahoney.”
“Farnsworth Appleby.”
“Delighted. To Barry,” he said, raising his glass.
“Cheers,” said Erin, sipping her fruit juice.
“He may have been a bastard,” Stephen said, “but no one deserves to be murdered.”
“Was he?” said Erin. “A bastard?”
“Let’s just say … never mind. May he rest in peace,” he said, taking another swallow of whisky.
“Have you known him a long time?”
“A few years.”
“Did you know him when you were in the audience for his TED Talk?”
He looked taken aback. “Uh—no. I just turned up to hear him, then went up to him afterward and he offered me a job.”
Erin and Farnsworth exchanged a glance. “When was that?”
“Three years ago.”
“You’ve worked for him ever since?”
“I know—sounds masochistic, doesn’t it?”
“And have you had time to work on your art?”
“Actually, that was one of the best things about the job. I produced a lot of work, and was lucky enough to be in a couple of gallery shows.”
“Where?”
“I was part of a group show in a Soho museum called Off the Wall, and later they offered me a solo show.”
“Well done,” said Farnsworth.
“What about Luca? How did she and Barry meet?” asked Erin.
“Look, I’d better be off,” he said, draining his glass. “Nice talking with you.”
“Good to meet you,” said Farnsworth.
“See you later,” said Erin. When he had gone, she turned to Farnsworth. “Did you hear how he pronounced that word?”
“What word?”
“Museum.”
“Was it unusual?”
“He said moozayum.”
“Interesting. What do you think it means?”
“I have a theory.”
“Do tell,” Farnsworth said as Hetty and Pru entered the room.
“There you are,” said Hetty, striding over to Erin and Farnsworth, an urgent expression on her face. Pru scurried after her, her legs being much shorter; she too looked as if she had something pressing on her mind.
“Hello,” said Farnsworth. “What’s up?”
“We’ve just lost our moderator for the two o’clock panel. Either of you available?”
“What’s the topic?” asked Erin.
“Jane Austen’s England—Paradise or Paradigm?”
“I think I can handle that,” said Farnsworth. “I’ll do it. Unless you want it?” she asked Erin.
“You go ahead. I’ve done plenty already.”
“And you need time for your sleuthing,” Hetty said with a wink.
“What happened to your moderator?” asked Erin.
“He became suddenly ill,” Pru said.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Apparently it’s some sort of stomach thing. Come along, then,” she said to Farnsworth. “The panel starts in ten minutes.”
“I’ll walk with you,” Erin said as Farnsworth followed the other two out of the room.
As they passed through the lobby, Farnsworth pointed to a pair of large, terra-cotta pots on either side of the entrance. Each contained deep-blue plants with masses of bell-like blossoms on long, elegant stems. The interior of the blossoms were beautifully intricate, mottled patterns of white and lavender.
“Such healthy specimens of monkshood,” Farnsworth remarked as they passed.
“Are you sure that’s what they are?” said Erin.
“I don’t lay claim to much expertise, pet, but I do know my flowers. Why do you ask?”
“I’ll explain later,” Erin said. “Have a good panel.”
“But—”
“Come along,” Pru said, taking Farnsworth’s elbow. “No time to waste.”
As her three friends turned off toward the conference rooms, Erin bent and carefully examined the plants. Straightening up, she headed toward the lifts. She had a theory, and she was very anxious to try it out.
Chapter Twenty
“York Constabulary, Detective Hemming speaking.” His voice was tired, ragged.
“It’s Erin.”
There was a pause, as if she had taken him by surprise.
“Hello, Miss Coleridge. What can I do for you?”
“Miss Coleridge.” Not a good sign. Erin took a deep breath. “Has the medical examiner completed the tox screen on Barry Wolf?”
“They haven’t sent us any results yet.”
“Tell them to test for aconite poisoning.”
“What?”
“It’s the main toxin in monkshood. It interferes with the heart—”
“I know what it does. Why do you think we should test for it?”
She described the plants in the lobby.
“What makes you think—”
“I could see where some stems had been cut or torn off.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
Sixteen minutes later, he staggered into the hotel, looking bedraggled in his weather-beaten trench coat and herringbone tweed cap.
“Are you warm enough in that?” she said as he stamped his feet on the mat, moisture clinging to his boots.
“My ancestors were Vikings, remember?” he said, brushing the snow from his shoulders.
“You did tell me that.” It seemed so long ago, their walk across the moors, the tea shared huddling in the ruins of a cottage while being pelted with rain. “Still, you might—”
“I’m wearing a jumper,” he said, opening his coat to reveal a thick, dark-blue sweater. “You sound like my mother. Now, what did you want to show me?”
“This,” she said, leading him over to the pair of potted plants, aware the overly perky desk clerk was watching her closely. She made eye contact with the woman, who looked a bit startled. “Tricia, isn’t it?”
“Yes—can I help?” she answered warily.
“You don’t mind if I show Detective Hemming these potted plants, do you?”
“Detective? No, not at all, but—”
“Thanks. Now, look here,” she told him. “A large chunk has been cut off of this plant.” She turned the pot round so he could see.
“Maybe it was being pruned.”
“You don’t prune a plant that way. You’d pinch it off a bit from the top, but you wouldn’t remove entire stalks.”
“Maybe it was an accident.”
“You can see where it was cut cleanly, probably by a knife or sharp scissors—here, where some of the stem still remains.”
He peered down at the plant. “What if you’re right—what are you implying?”
She glanced at Tricia, who was pretending to organize papers, but was clearly listening intently.
“Not here,” she told him.
“Where, then?”
“In the bar.” Her room was too personal, and the bar was closer.
“All right.”
The bartender smiled at Erin when she returned; both she and Hemming ordered cappuccino.
“What makes you think he was poisoned by aconite?” he said as they settled into a pair of armchairs by the window. His pale-yellow hair looked almost white in the winter light.
“He vomited profusely before his death.”
“That’s not unknown in sudden cardiac arrest.”
“But it’s not a common symptom. And he had no previous cardiac history.”
“How do you know?”
“It was in the ME’s report.”
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“Do you have any suspects in mind?”
“Can you just ask the medical examiner to test for aconite? And if I’m wrong, I’ll back off.”
He leaned back in his chair and regarded her with heavy-lidded eyes.
“You’re so interested in crime. Why didn’t you become a policewoman?”
“Maybe I will yet. Did you know that another name for monkshood is ‘wolf’s bane’?”
“Why do you ask?”
“The killer might have a dark sense of humor.”
“Oh, I see—Barry Wolf. Wolf’s bane. Bit of a stretch, don’t you think?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“All right,” he said, finishing his coffee. “I’ll take a specimen of the plant with me.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll let you know the results on one condition.”
“What’s that?” she asked, knowing what was next.
“That you back off and stop poking around.”
“I’ll do my best to stay out of trouble.”
“Look, Erin,” he said. “I know I haven’t been myself this week, but … I’m hoping we can get together and talk about something other than crime. In the meantime, if something happens to you—” He paused to wipe something from his eye. “I would never forgive myself.”
“It wouldn’t be your fault.” He looked away, and she had a realization that, as far as he was concerned, everything was his fault. Suddenly, it was so clear—his exaggerated sense of responsibility, his gravitas.
She reached for his hand, but his mobile phone chirped, and he dug it out of his pocket.
“Hemming.” He listened intently, his face serious. “What’s the address?” Listening, he scribbled it onto a cocktail napkin. “On my way,” he said, and stood up. “I have to leave right away,” he told Erin.
“What about the specimen?”
“Sorry—it’ll have to wait.”
“Someone’s been killed, haven’t they?”
“What do I owe?” he asked. Digging in his pocket, he dropped the cocktail napkin.
She pounced on it as it fluttered to the floor. “My treat,” she said. Glancing at the napkin, she quickly memorized the name and address before handing it back to him. When he took it from her, his fingers lingered on hers. Her breath quickened, and her stomach felt hollow.
“I’m sorry—I have to go. I’ll talk to you when I can.”
“Right,” she said. “Thanks for coming.”
When he was gone, she wrote the name and address on a little pad she always carried with her. Sam Buchanan, 41 Townsend Street. He had scribbled something else underneath—“water?” No, it looked more like “waiter.” She didn’t recognize the address, but the name—could it be their Sam? If the word was indeed “waiter,” it all fit. She tried to console herself with the idea that Buchanan was a common enough last name, but she had a bad feeling as she walked up to pay the bar bill.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Here ye go, luv,” said the Scottish bartender, handing Erin the bill for the cappuccinos. He was short and broad shouldered, built like a professional wrestler, with shaggy black eyebrows and thick, closely cropped dark hair. According to the tag on his red vest, his name was Spike.
“Thanks,” she said. She signed with her room number before typing the address she had memorized into Google maps on her phone. She wanted to get it in as quickly as possible lest she forget it.
“Wha’d the copper want?” he asked. “Not that it’s any a’ my business, mind you.” Judging from his truncated vowels and guttural consonants, she guessed he was from Glasgow.
“How did you know he’s a policeman?”
He smiled. “Let’s just say I’ve got a history, luv.”
“He didn’t want anything—I asked him to meet me.”
“Oh, aye?” he said, leaning his meaty arms on the bar. On his left forearm, a tattoo protruded from the rolled-up shirt sleeve, a black-and-white cobweb. Erin recognized it as a prison tattoo, usually indicating someone who has spent a long stretch behind bars.
“How long were you inside, Spike?”
His eyes fell on the tattoo. “I’m on parole, actually, keepin’ my nose clean.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” she said, trying to appear casual, but a little nervous in his presence—and, to be honest, a bit excited as well.
“Do you recognize this address?” she asked, showing him what she had written down.
“Aye. It’s where our Sam lives.”
“Sam who works here as a waiter? So his last name is Buchanan?”
“Aye.”
“Are you sure?”
“Gospel truth. I’ve dropped ’im off after work often enough. He doesn’t own a car, ye see.”
Erin’s head felt light, and her vision blurred momentarily.
“Come tae think of it, he daedna come in today.”
“Did anyone speak to him?”
“I thaink they rang ’im but there was no answer. Why? Has somethin’ happened?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”
“Lemme know when ye do, eh?” Spike said, putting a tray of glasses on the shelf. “He’s a good sort, Sam is.”
“I will,” she said, stumbling out of the room. She made it to the lift in a fog, hardly noticing anything around her. Within minutes, she was sitting in the living room of Farnsworth’s suite, while her friend bustled about making the timeless British cure for all ailments and shocks to body and spirit: a cup of tea.
“Do you think if something’s happened to Sam—God forbid—it’s connected to Barry’s death?” asked Farnsworth, pouring milk into a pair of white porcelain mugs.
“What are the chances the two aren’t connected?” Erin said, pacing the room.
“So Detective Hemming looked upset when he got the phone call?”
“Very. He got up and left immediately. I’ve got to find out what happened!”
“Take it easy, pet,” Farnsworth said, handing her a steaming mug of tea.
“Thanks,” Erin said, taking a sip. The hot liquid was comforting in a way that defied rationality, as though the essence of succor and well-being had been distilled into the dried leaves from a modest little shrub hardy enough to grow in a wide variety of climates around the world.
“Biscuit?” said Farnsworth, holding out a tin of Scottish shortbreads.
“Ta,” Erin said, taking a couple. Lunch hour was long over—it was nearing dinnertime—and she hadn’t eaten anything except popcorn since an early breakfast.
“What are you going to do?”
“Drive over to the house and see what I can find out.”
“Want company?”
“You don’t have any panels this afternoon?”
“The ten o’clock was my only one today.”
“Come along, then.”
“Finish your tea,” Farnsworth commanded. “I’ll call the concierge and tell them to bring your car round.”
Popping the second biscuit into her mouth, Erin gulped down the rest of her tea, the warmth spreading throughout her body. “That went down without touching the sides,” she said, handing Farnsworth the mug.
“Auntie Farnsworth knows what’s best, pet,” her friend said, throwing on a long, forest-green wool cloak and matching beret. Hetty Miller might strive to be fashionable, but Farnsworth had her own, unstudied sense of style.
The snow had stopped falling, but a thick layer lay on the ground as they stepped outside the hotel.
“This must be about six inches,” Farnsworth remarked as the valet drove up with their car.
“Five and a half, to be exact, mum,” he said, climbing out of the car. The aroma of stale cigarette smoke hovered around him as he handed Erin the keys.
“Thanks,” Erin said, taking out her wallet.
“Let me, pet,” Farnsworth said, whipping out a five-pound note. “Thank you very much,” she said, handing it to him.
“Thank you, mum,” he said with
a broad smile, tipping his hat. He was slight and lean, with a long jaw and protruding underbite, his skin dusky and uneven. His teeth, darkened from tobacco, were the color of weak coffee. According to the ID tag on his crisp black vest, his name was Clyde.
As they drove away, Farnsworth remarked, “If he were a character actor, he’d work all the time. Where are we going?” she said as Erin turned onto Station Street, aka the A1036, one of the thick modern arteries slicing through the medieval city.
“41 Townsend Street.”
“Shall I put that in the satnav?”
“If you like. I sort of memorized the route.”
“Well done, you. I’ll do it anyway, just in case,” she said, leaning forward to type the information into the car’s GPS screen.
“It’s a pretty straight shot,” Erin said as they crossed the River Ouse. The water beneath them flowed sluggishly, moody and gray beneath the wintry sky, as the last feeble rays of the sun struggled to break through a thick cloud cover. York Minster loomed heavily in the foreground, its trembling spires reaching for the hand of God, a testimony to man’s endless yearning. She continued forward, as Station Road became Museum Street, past the Theatre Royale, staying on the A1036 as it turned left at Duncombe Place, changing its name again to Gillygate.
They were in college territory now, bordering the campus of St. John’s University. Chinese takeaways were followed by fish and chips joints and cozy coffee shops, making Erin nostalgic for her student days.
“Oh, there’s the Coconut Lagoon,” Farnsworth said wistfully as they passed an inviting-looking Indian restaurant. “It’s meant to be really good.”
“We’re almost there,” Erin said, turning onto Townsend Street as the aroma of curry spices and tandoori naan wafted into her nostrils.
“Maybe we can go there after?” said Farnsworth.
“We’ll see,” she replied, though she was feeling a bit light-headed from hunger.
Number 41 was the left half of an ordinary-looking gray stone building, the kind of rambling two-family home often occupied by students. Erin wondered if Sam was a student at St. John’s, moonlighting as a waiter between classes.
It was obvious right away that something was amiss. An ambulance sat at the curb, its top light spinning, flanked by two police cars and a white police van with a band of blue and yellow stripes. Above the stripes were the words Crime Scene Investigation. Behind the van was Detective Hemming’s battered blue Citroen. Cursing herself because her own car was equally unmistakable, Erin swung the Sunbeam Alpine onto Backhouse Street, the narrow side street just across from 41 Townsend. Pulling into the carpark behind a block of flats, she cut off the engine.
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