Death and Sensibility

by Elizabeth Blake

  She turned over onto her back and propped her head up with the hotel’s luxurious, king-sized down pillows. “So, what’s up?”

  “I thought you might like to hear the results of my research.” He sounded a bit put out.

  “Yes, please,” she said, sitting up, suddenly alert. “What did you learn?”

  “Well, it seems that Judith Eton was indeed Grant Apthorp’s research assistant while he was a graduate student at Oxford. She was a freshman at the time.”

  “Any hanky-panky?”

  “No, but there may have been with someone else.”

  “Who?”

  “Terrence Rogers. He was a lecturer at the time.”

  “Really? Do tell.”

  “They were often together on campus, and my source tells me she was seen leaving his rooms at all hours.”

  “Who is your source?”

  “A venerable old porter by the name of Harry Bellows. I knew him well back in the day. Has a memory like a steel trap, and a nose like a bloodhound. I wouldn’t try to sneak anything past him. Come to think of it, I did once as an undergrad, and it didn’t go well.”

  “You mean my dear old Da wasn’t the blue-eyed boy I always thought he was?”

  “That was a myth propagated by your dear late mother.”

  “What did you do, exactly?”

  “Let’s just say it involved a purloined llama and several bottles with pictures of a kilted man on them.”

  “Was Scotch whiskey outlawed on campus?”

  “No. It was a bribe to procure the llama. Sorry to puncture your elevated view of me.”

  “No worries—it wasn’t all that elevated.”

  “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is—”

  “—to have a thankless child. I’m a rotten daughter.”

  “No, just ungrateful.”

  “What else did Mr. Harry Bellows tell you?”

  “Toward the end of Judith’s freshman year, Terrence Rogers’s office was vandalized.”

  “Did they catch the perpetrator?”

  “There were several suspects, but no one was ever charged.”

  “Did Mr. Bellows remember who they were?”

  “The man’s a wonder, I tell you. Just a second—I wrote them down.” There was the sound of rustling paper in the background. “Here we are. Judith was questioned, but she was out of town at the time, so she was eliminated. Several of his other students were also questioned.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Let’s see … the cleaning lady, the building’s maintenance man, and—oh, yes, a woman by the name of Winnifred Hogsworthy.”

  “Winnifred Hogsworthy? Are you sure about that?”

  “Unlikely name, I know; that’s why I wrote it down.”

  “What relationship did she have to Terrence?”

  “Apparently she was a great friend of Judith’s.”

  “Why was she questioned?”

  “She was observed coming out of his office not long before the vandalism.”

  “Curioser and curioser.”

  “Why? Do you know her?”

  “She’s at this conference. Quite an odd duck. And she displays a greater than normal devotion to her friend Judith.”

  “That is interesting.”

  “I can imagine her being jealous of Terrence and taking it into her head to do something about it.”

  “Why do you think—” he began, but there was a knock on the door of Erin’s room.

  “Hang on a minute,” she said. “Someone’s at the door.”

  “There may be a murderer lurking about. Mind how you go.”

  Erin smiled at the quaint phrase, a reminder of her father’s Norfolk roots. “Thanks for the information—talk to you later.”

  “Please be careful.”

  “I will, Dad,” she said, and rang off as the knocking on her door grew more insistent. “Just a minute!” she said, throwing on her dressing gown, which was actually a black karate robe she had found in an Oxford charity shop.

  She opened the door to find Hetty Miller, in sandals and a fluffy white bathrobe, tapping her foot impatiently.

  “Did you forget?” said Hetty.

  “Forget what?”

  “You said you’d join me in the spa.”

  “I did?”

  “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “I’m sorry. It completely slipped my mind.”

  Hetty heaved an exasperated sigh. “Come along, then! I made a massage appointment for both of us, and they’ll charge us even if we don’t show up.”

  “Give me a couple of minutes—I’ll meet you down there.”

  “All right,” Hetty said. “Mind you don’t take too long.”

  Hearing the smack of her rubber flip-flops as Hetty retreated down the hall, Erin changed out of her pajamas into shorts and a T-shirt. She always took a long bath right before bed, so she rarely needed a morning shower except in hot, sticky weather. At the moment, according to the weather app on her phone, it was minus four degrees Celsius. She slipped on a pair of sandals, threw on her karate robe, and grabbed her key card. Darting out of the room, she was halfway down the hall before she heard the door lock click in place.

  Already feeling quite peckish, she was unable to resist the smell of buttery croissants coming from the restaurant. She made a quick detour to pick one up, and upon entering the breakfast room, saw Farnsworth and Grant Apthorp seated at a window table. When Farnsworth waved her over, Erin felt torn. She had already kept Hetty waiting, and was guilty about succumbing to her weakness for freshly baked croissants.

  “Sleep well?” Farnsworth asked as Erin approached.

  “I did,” she lied. “What about you?”

  Farnsworth sighed. “Not too bad, considering—” Erin glared at her, and she broke off with the pretense of a coughing fit.

  “You all right?” said Grant.

  “Yes, thanks—something went down the wrong way.” Farnsworth said, glancing at Erin.

  “I hear you had quite the feast last night,” said Grant. Dressed in a forest-green cardigan over a crisp white shirt, his thick gray hair swept back, he looked like a movie star version of a college professor. Not for the first time, Erin wondered why a man like him wasn’t married, and what his personal history was.

  “It was so good,” Farnsworth. “The korma was heavenly.”

  “Would you like to join us?” Grant asked Erin.

  “Actually, I was just going to grab a croissant—I’m late to meet Hetty in the spa.”

  “Have one of these,” said Grant, picking up the basket of fresh-baked breads from their table.

  “Oh, I don’t want to take yours—”

  “It’ll take you forever to get a waiter’s attention,” he said. “They’re really busy, and rather understaffed today.”

  Erin looked around the crowded restaurant, the waiters scurrying about trying to keep up. “All right,” she said, plucking a croissant from the basket. “Ta very much.”

  “Here,” Grant said, handing her a tiny jar of bramble jelly. “Take this as well.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t—”

  “Go on—we’ve plenty of others,” he said, pointing to the display of jams in a small silver canister.

  “Thanks very much,” said Erin. “You’re very kind.”

  “You’d better get on with it, then,” said Farnsworth. “Hetty hates to be kept waiting.”

  “Right. Good seeing you again,” she told Grant.

  “And you.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” said Farnsworth, rising from her chair.

  “There’s really no need—”

  Farnsworth silenced her with a glare.

  “All right,” said Erin.

  When they were halfway across the room, Farnsworth whispered, “Anything new about Sam?”

  “Not really. I talked with Spike last night, but he said Sam didn’t have any enemies he knew of.”

  Farnsworth shook her head. “Poor Sam. Such a lovely man.�
��

  “That’s just what Spike said.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  “I will.”

  “See you at Grant’s reading this afternoon?”

  “Oh, is that today?”

  “Yes, he’s reading from Alluring Lies: The False Promise of Romanticism.”

  “You sure you want to get involved with the man who wrote that?”

  “He’s talking about literature, not life, silly.”

  “Still,” Erin said. “Makes you wonder.”

  Farnsworth rolled her eyes. “Go on then, or Hetty will have your head.”

  As she rounded the corner to the stairs leading down to the spa, Erin quite literally ran into Jonathan Alder as he came from the other direction.

  “Oof!” she said, staggering backward.

  He grabbed her shoulders to keep her from falling. His hands were warm, fine-boned but strong. “Are you all right?” he said, releasing her, his fingers lingering just a moment on her back.

  “Fine,” she said, her skin tingling where he had touched it.

  “You’re in a hurry.”

  “I’m late to meet Hetty. Apparently I promised to meet her in the spa.”

  “Apparently?”

  “I have no memory of it.”

  “Uh-oh,” he said. “Early onset of dementia?”

  “More likely an attack of Spike’s cocktails.”

  “He does make them strong, doesn’t he? Hey,” he said as she turned to leave. “You game to walk the wall today? I’m quite keen to do it while we’re here.”

  “Uh—sure.”

  “Two o’clock?”

  “Fine.”

  Walking along the Roman wall surrounding York was a popular pastime for tourists and locals alike. There was a website dedicated to the pursuit, complete with maps and historical narrative.

  “I’ll meet you in the lobby at a little before two, then.”

  “Great,” she said, heading for the stairs, afraid Hetty would never forgive her.

  The slim, immaculately groomed spa attendant—Marcia, according to her name tag—informed Erin that the two morning appointments were already in session. When Erin gave Marcia her name, she studied the desk register while Erin took in the cool, soothing décor. The blue and white tiles lining the floors and plaster busts of men’s heads set into recessed wall niches suggested a Roman bath. Sound echoed through the cavernous chambers, bouncing off the smooth walls, becoming softer and softer, until all that remained was a faint whisper. Erin could smell the chlorine from the pool in the next room, and caught a glimpse of the gently rippling blue water.

  Marcia looked up from her ledger, frowning. “Are you quite certain? It says here the appointments were booked for Hetty Miller and Prudence Pettibone.”

  “Really?” said Erin, trying to imagine Pru in the hands of a masseuse. She couldn’t picture Prudence unclothed at all—it was if she came straight out of the womb wearing ratty, mismatched outfits.

  Marcia turned the appointment book so Erin could read it. “You’re welcome to look if you like.”

  “I believe you. I’m just surprised.”

  “They’ll be finished in another ten minutes. There’s no one booked just after them, so I can fit you right in.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but—”

  Just then Prudence and Hetty came sauntering out of the massage room, draped in the hotel’s white terrycloth bathrobes. They both looked utterly relaxed and content. Pru’s face was ruddy and shiny and beaming. Until now, Erin didn’t think Prudence was capable of looking so happy.

  When Hetty saw Erin, her face registered guilt. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Erin! It was Prudence who said she’d meet me, not you. Please forgive me for showing up so agitated.”

  “I was down here waiting for her,” Prudence said, beaming.

  “Let me treat you to a massage to make up for it,” said Hetty.

  “Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery,” said Pru. “I have just seen a little bit of heaven.”

  “It’s truly divine,” Hetty agreed. “My treat.”

  “That’s very generous,” Erin said. “But I—”

  “I insist—please.”

  “All right,” Erin said, convinced by the beatific expression on Pru’s face.

  “We’re off to the steam room,” said Pru. “Ta-ta.”

  “See you later,” said Hetty, following her friend across the sleek lobby.

  “When would you like to book your massage?” asked Marcia.

  “I’ll check my schedule and call you. Thanks very much,” she said, bounding up the stairs.

  When she emerged into the hotel lobby, Erin realized she was still holding a now crumbling croissant, still faintly warm. Being very hungry, she settled into one of the small settees in the lobby’s wall recesses to eat it. Fishing the tiny jar of bramble jam from the pocket of her robe, she shoved a corner of the croissant in, and took a generous bite. “Mmm,” she murmured happily, as the tart jam and crispy, buttery croissant melded into an exquisite combination of taste and texture.

  “You’ll want some coffee to go with that, won’t you?”

  She turned to see Charles Kilroy, clad in his usual Indian Jones outfit, though she was relieved to see he had changed his shirt.

  “The restaurant is really busy right now,” she said, flicking a crumb from her arm.

  “Don’t you have a Keurig machine in your room?”

  “Yes, but it’s so far away. I’m on the top floor, all the way down the hall. I sound terribly lazy, don’t I?”

  “Come with me,” he said with a mysterious smile.

  “Where are we going?” she asked as he led her past the empty panel rooms—the first session didn’t begin until ten o’clock.

  “You’ll see,” he said, walking surprisingly fast for a man of his girth. Erin scurried to keep up with him. Across from the grand ballroom was a small antechamber with a couple of desks and a couple of hotel wall phones. “Ah, here we are,” he said, stopping in front of a large metal coffee urn. “Fresh and hot. Allow me,” he said, taking a cup and saucer from the stack next to the urn.

  “How did you find this?”

  “I’m an explorer,” Charles said with a wink, handing her a steaming cup of coffee. “Actually, I suggested they include coffee along with the water pitchers for the panels. They had to put it in here because the hallway outlets shorted out yesterday for some reason. Cream?” he said, picking up a small ceramic pitcher.

  “Thanks. You are a resourceful man, Mr. Charles Kilroy,” Erin said, sipping the dark liquid. “This is brilliant.”

  “Quite acceptable for hotel coffee,” he agreed, pouring himself a cup. “I’m going to drop by the bookstore—care to join me?”

  “Just one more for the road,” she said, pouring a second cup of coffee before following him down the carpeted corridor.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  A few people were scattered around the bookstore, walking slowly past the tables, or standing, heads down, shoulders bent in the posture Erin knew so well, having observed it in her own customers in Kirkbymoorside. There was a particular concentrated calm displayed by people browsing in bookstores, a kind of focused, meditative state. It was soothing, like watching sheep grazing in a meadow. The room was quiet, the only sound the turning of pages or low murmurings of customers. Inhaling the familiar, musty scent of paper and ink, Erin felt a sense of peace; she was at home here, among these uniquely human objects, repositories of thoughts and feelings and imagination.

  Minding the till was the thin, older gentleman she had seen earlier in her panel; he looked up from the book he was reading and nodded as she and Charles entered the room.

  “Were you looking for something in particular?” he asked in his reedy voice, thin as paper.

  “Just browsing,” Charles answered.

  “Let me know if I can help,” he said before turning back to his book.

  “Did you notice what he was reading?” Erin whispered as the
y perused the tables of titles, many related to Jane Austen and her time period.

  “No, what?”

  “Terrence Rogers’s book.”

  “The one he was promoting so relentlessly?”

  “Yep.”

  “The Plot Thickens, something like that?”

  “Jane Austen and Her Contemporaries.”

  “Right. I remember.”

  “Oh, here’s Grant’s book,” Erin said.

  “Which one?”

  “Alluring Lies: The False Promise of Romanticism. That’s interesting,” she said, perusing the Acknowledgments. “He thanks Barry Wolf ‘for his invaluable assistance and guidance.’”

  “That is intriguing,” Charles agreed as Erin replaced the book on the table. The cover illustration was a painting of a satyr presenting a blushing nymph with a sumptuous bouquet of red roses. The expression on his face was rapacious, vulgar, as he leered at her yielding, voluptuous body, clad only in a sheer, clinging white shroud. The message was clear: the roses were a front for aggressive male libido, thinly cloaked in a false presentation of love and romance.

  “Nice cover,” said a female voice behind Erin.

  Erin turned to see Khari Butari, clad in a mustard-colored tunic over black pants.

  “Hello,” she said. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  Khari smiled. “I’m not surprised. These carpets are at least three inches thick.”

  “Hi, I’m Khari Butari,” she said to Charles.

  “Girls of Dakar, winner of Best Documentary, New York African Film Festival, 2018.”

  Khari’s jaw dropped. “Wow. Who are you?

  “Charles Augustus Kilroy,” he said, shaking her hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”

  She turned to Erin. “Who is he?”

  “A fan,” she said. “He’s a fan.”

  “Bien sur,” said Khari. “A superfan, I’d say.”

  “I prefer ‘uberfan,’ actually,” he said.

  They all laughed. The thin gentleman looked up from his book, clearly annoyed.

  “Are you going to Grant’s reading?” said Khari.

  “When is it again?” asked Erin.

  “In about fifteen minutes.”

  “We’d better get going. Are you coming?” she asked Charles.

  “I think I’ll stay here and browse a bit. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  “Where is the reading?” Erin asked as the two women headed toward the panel rooms.