Death and Sensibility

by Elizabeth Blake

  Erin sighed. Clearly Sam hadn’t gotten that far, though even if he had, it might not have saved him.

  “You wouldn’t happen to be the one who discovered the, uh, body, would you?” she asked Christine.

  “In the cloakroom, y’mean? Yeah, that was me.”

  “Did you see anything … suspicious?”

  “Like what?”

  “Anything out of the ordinary?”

  Christine bit her lip and wrapped her thin arms around her body. “Not really. I mean, it was pretty shockin’, finding a dead person in the cloakroom.”

  “Of course. It must have been horrible for you.”

  She nodded, her eyes welling up. “I never seen a dead person before. At first I thought he was jus’ drunk, got sick an’ passed out, like. I seen that before.”

  Bridget put a protective arm around her. “It was very upsetting for her. She only just came back to work today.”

  “Of course. Thank you so much for your time,” Erin said, slipping each of them a fiver for their trouble. As she left the restaurant, she passed a busboy carrying a bin of dirty dishes to the kitchen, wishing she had access to the used dishes the night Barry died. Somewhere, in the depths of the restaurant kitchen, valuable evidence of a devious crime had been washed away.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “What do you say—you up to walking the whole thing?” Jonathan Alder asked as he and Erin left the hotel a little after two o’clock.

  “Sure,” she said as they turned right on Station Rise, glad she had brought her winter hiking boots. Though the streets had been plowed, the snow lay thick all around them, cold and sparkling in the afternoon sun, like tiny diamonds sprinkled on cotton.

  No point in downtown York was very far from the medieval wall that encircled the original city, and the nearest entrance was just other side of Station Road, where it met Station Rise, a few hundred yards from the hotel.

  “You’ve done this before, right?” Jonathan said as they passed the York War Memorial, a tall stone monolith nestled next to the grassy mound that ran along much of the wall.

  “Once, yeah.”

  “How long does it take?”

  “We can walk it easily in two hours, and a little over one if we move fast,” she said as they mounted the steps set in the stone archway. The wall was in excellent condition at this point—other sections of it were in ruins or nonexistent, and travelers had to either walk alongside the ruins or follow the path of where it used to be. Here, though, the wall could be seen in all its original glory, a sturdy stone barricade with square Normanesque towers that reminded Erin of Kirkbymoorside’s historic All Souls Church. Here the wall was fully six feet wide, rising about thirteen feet from the ground.

  “It’s amazing to think of people building this, stone by stone,” Jonathan said as they headed southwest along the stone walkway, the snow packed hard beneath their feet.

  “I know—I always think of the sentinels who must have roamed it just as we are now.”

  “Except they were watching for invading enemies, and we’re just out for a stroll.”

  “There’s a wonderful coffee house just about halfway around, and we can stop in there. It’s actually part of the wall.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard of this place—the Gateway, or something like that?”

  “The Gatehouse,” she said as they turned left just beyond the railway station. “I think part of it dates back to the twelfth century.”

  Jonathan pulled out his mobile and typed into the keyboard. “It says here it’s the gatehouse of the Walmgate Bar.”

  “You know that a ‘bar’ is what they call the gates leading into the city, right?”

  “And it says here the Walmgate Bar gatehouse is the only remaining barbican in England.”

  “What’s a barbican again?”

  “According to Wikipedia, it’s a fortified outpost, or any tower situated over a gate or bridge which was used for defensive purposes.”

  “Wow. And here we are at the Mickelgate Bar,” she said as they approached the imposing stone structure rising from the horizontal ridge of the wall. Its wide arch straddled the street below; the cars zipping through the winding street reminded Erin of a carnival ride.

  “According to Wikipedia, it’s the most important of the four main gates leading into the city,” Erin said. “Monarchs visiting from the south would enter through the Mickelgate Bar.”

  Its twin towers loomed above them as they nodded to another pair of walkers, a fit-looking middle-aged couple in matching green down jackets, woolen yak hats, and sturdy hiking boots. They wore heavy rucksacks, as if ready for overnight camping.

  “Swedish tourists,” Jonathan remarked when they had passed.

  “How do you know?”

  “They always look overly prepared. Did you see those two?”

  “Yeah. What’s with the backpacks?”

  “Exactly. You can always tell the Scandinavians. Too fit, always look ten years younger than their age, and dressed like they spend most of their lives outdoors in the winter.”

  Erin laughed.

  “I would find them annoying,” said Jonathan, “but they’re too good-natured even for that.”

  “You seem to have traveled a bit.”

  “I’d like to do more of it.”

  They walked in silence for a while, then Jonathan said, “Poison’s meant to be a woman’s game, isn’t it?”

  “What makes you ask that?”

  “I was thinking if Barry Wolf was poisoned, isn’t it more likely to be a woman?”

  “Not necessarily. Men kill people a lot more than women, but women are more likely to choose poison. They have less physical strength, and they tend to prefer less confrontational methods.”

  Jonathan stared at her. “Farnsworth is right—you really are a crime buff.”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “So do you have any suspects?”

  “Not really,” she said. “It seems like everyone has a motive.”

  “He wasn’t very well liked, was he? That’s the impression I got when I first met him in London.”

  “You knew him before?”

  “Briefly. He was headmaster of my public school for a couple of terms. Didn’t last long.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

  “You didn’t ask. And I don’t see that it has any bearing on his death.”

  “You never know. What can you tell me about him?”

  “He was remote, seemed keen on himself. Nothing you couldn’t glean from seeing him at the conference. I never actually spoke with him—I was a first year and he was headmaster.”

  “What school was it?”

  “Christ’s Hospital, in Horsham. My family didn’t have a lot of money, and they took charity students. Is that your coffee shop up ahead?”

  “Yes. If I remember, the entrance is around this side,” she said, leading him to it.

  Erin pushed open the thick oak door to enter the interior of the shop. As she did, some snow slid from the roof above her and onto her head. Some of the snow slipped down her neck, and she quickly dug it out with her hands, getting her leather gloves quite wet in the process.

  “You all right?” Jonathan said. “Need some help?”

  “Thanks, I think I got it all,” she said, continuing into the shop.

  They were greeted by the warm, dark aroma of freshly brewed coffee; an espresso machine hissed gently behind the bar. A cheerful-looking young man in a white apron stood behind the long wooden bar laden with glass cabinets of muffins, scones, and cakes.

  “Wow, this is something,” Jonathan said as they stood at the entrance, taking in the room, with its thick walls and flagstone floors. Strings of fairy lights hung from the ceiling; heavy wooden tables and chairs were scattered around the room; a brown leather sofa took up one wall. The room was empty of customers except for a young couple huddled over a pot of tea in the far corner. Soft Gregorian chants streamed from wall speakers overhead.
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  “What an appropriate soundtrack,” Jonathan said, smiling. “Suits this place.”

  “Glad you like it. Welcome to the Gatehouse,” said the barista. He sported a neatly trimmed beard and sleek ponytail.

  “Thanks,” Erin said, walking up to the counter. On the wall was a gigantic chalkboard menu listing the various beverages available, everything from drip coffee to golden matcha latte.

  “What’ll you have?” said Jonathan. “My treat.”

  “Oh, that’s not—”

  “I never would have found this place without you,” he told her, with a wink at the barista, who smiled broadly. There was something joyful about him, an appealing inner happiness. His dark hair was shiny as sealskin. Erin generally didn’t like ponytails on men, but it suited him.

  “It’s true,” said the young man. “A lot of folks walk the wall without knowing we’re here. And the entrance is hard to find.”

  “Thanks,” said Erin. “I’ll have a macchiato, please.”

  The barista nodded. “And you, sir?”

  “A flat white, please. And a raisin scone.”

  “Clotted cream and cherry jam?”

  “Absolutely,” Jonathan said, tucking three pounds into the tip jar.

  “Ta very much,” the barista said, flashing another smile.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” Erin said when they got their drinks.

  “There’s another room?”

  “Oh, yes,” said their barista. “And you’ll have it all to yourself. Not many people walking the wall in this weather.”

  “Slow day?” said Jonathan.

  “A bit of a morning rush, but only a trickle after that.”

  Jonathan nodded and slipped a couple more pounds into the tip jar while the young barista’s back was turned. Erin admired his generosity, and even more for doing it when no one was looking. She usually made sure baristas and store clerks saw her tip, but anonymous generosity was more virtuous.

  The upstairs room was even more wonderful than the ground floor—deep, chocolatey armchairs and sofas lent the room an aura of comfort and warmth, in spite of the chilly air. Pale afternoon light filtered through narrow, cross-latticed windows set deep into the ancient walls, with huge, its rough-hewn stones, each one different a size and shape. More fairy lights dangled from the ceiling; an antique wooden chest served as a coffee table in front of the inviting leather sofa. It was like stepping back in time a thousand years, but with all the comforts of modern life.

  “This may be the most awesome place I’ve ever had a coffee in,” Jonathan said as they settled into matching armchairs facing each other in front of one of the windows.

  “Definitely true for me as well,” Erin said, sinking into the depths of the chair with a contented sigh. Removing her damp gloves, she laid them across a nearby radiator to dry.

  Glancing out the latticed window, she could see Clifford’s Tower looming in the distance, a bulky stone fortress perched on its earthen mound on the edge of the heavily fortified city.

  Jonathan followed her gaze. “It’s impossible to see that without thinking of the massacre.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “It’s hard to think about it.”

  Erin had recently read about it, so it was fresh in her mind. In one of the nastiest and most famous incidents of anti-Semitism in the history of England, approximately 150 Jewish people lost their lives in a notorious mass suicide and massacre. Following a wave of virulent anti-Jewish sentiment, they took shelter in the tower, then part of the royal castle at the time, only to find an angry mob congregating outside. Rather than be murdered, most of them elected to take their own lives, setting fire to their possessions as they died. When the tower caught fire, the few who escaped after being promised amnesty were promptly slaughtered by the mob. The tower was rebuilt, now the only remaining part of the castle.

  “I wonder …” Erin said, gazing out the window.

  “What?”

  “I wonder if Barry’s death was in some way—”

  “Related to anti-Semitism?”

  “Yeah,” she said, taking a sip of her coffee, already losing heat in the cool air.

  “Do you have any reason to think so?”

  “Just wondering.”

  They watched the evening light dim over the city. Like so many places in England, it had a complex past. Built by invading Romans, it was taken over by Angles, captured by Vikings, and later became the seat of Northumbrian and Norman royalty. And now they were sitting inside the walls of its ancient fortress, sipping fancy coffee.

  “Time to go,” Erin said finally, draining the last of her macchiato. “We have to get back for the dance lesson.”

  Saying goodbye to their friendly barista, they headed out into the December twilight. They walked along the parapet of the wall in companionable silence. Erin felt relaxed around Jonathan and enjoyed his presence. Still, as she stared at the silent stars flickering through the gathering darkness, her thoughts wandered to Peter Hemming, and she wondered what he was doing right now.

  She had been walking with her hands in her pockets, but as it grew colder, she felt around for her gloves, but could not find them.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “I left my gloves on the radiator in the café.”

  “Let’s go back.”

  “No, you stay—I’ll be just a minute,” she said. Turning, she jogged down the hard-packed path as quickly as was possible in heavy hiking boots.

  As she approached the building, she thought she saw a dark form retreating rapidly, hugging the wall before disappearing down the steps to the café entrance. There was something furtive in the figure’s movement that caught her eye—she had the distinct impression the person was trying to avoid being seen. In the dim light, it was impossible at that distance to see their face, and the thick winter clothing made it hard to even tell if it was a man or a woman. Clumsy in her heavy boots, Erin increased her gait as much as she could, clomping down the stairs and around the corner, but the figure had vanished. Disappointed, Erin caught her breath before entering the café.

  Sure enough, the cheerful barista had her gloves behind the counter, and handed them to her with a friendly smile.

  “Thanks,” she said, taking them. “Did you have any more customers after us?”

  “Uh, no—you were the last.”

  “No one came into the shop to look around?”

  “Not that I saw. Actually, we were due to close, but I thought you might come back for your gloves.”

  “I really appreciate it—thanks again,” she said, and left the shop.

  “Thank you,” he sang after her, his voice dissipating as she closed the heavy door behind her.

  Part of her thought she was being fanciful, but she couldn’t escape the nagging feeling that someone had been walking the wall with the sole purpose of following her.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  When they arrived back at the Grand, it was nearly five o’clock. Erin dashed upstairs to change her shoes—hiking boots were hardly the best choice for a Regency dance lesson. The class had already started when she crept into the ballroom.

  Judith Eton stood in the middle of the circle of dancers, elegant in a long Regency era gown. One or two of the other participants also wore period clothing—Winnifred Hogsworthy sported a yellow silk gown, and Terrence Rogers was resplendent in a striped frock coat, powder-blue waistcoat, and tan breeches—but most were in contemporary clothes. Many of them wore trainers, as Judith had told everyone to wear comfortable shoes. Charles Kilroy was dressed in his usual leather ensemble. At the far end of the room, Prudence and Hetty were side by side as usual, Pru looking like she had just stepped out of a gardening shed. Hetty wore a bright red cocktail dress and her signature high heels. She waved at Erin, which caused Farnsworth to turn and see Erin.

  Farnsworth motioned her over. “Where have you been?” she muttered.

  “Tell you later,” Erin whispered back as Judith shot an impatient look in their direction.


  “Now then,” Judith said, “as I was saying, there isn’t much athleticism involved in Regency dancing, but there is a bit of memory, so it should suit you lot perfectly.”

  There was some tittering and murmurs among the decidedly unathletic crowd. Not many in the room looked as if they had seen the inside of a gym.

  “I see some of you are wearing trainers,” Judith continued, “which is fine for now, but men wore leather shoes and women wore something akin to ballet slippers.”

  “Not me,” Farnsworth whispered to Erin. “No arch support.”

  “As you can imagine,” Judith said, “Regency dance is rather formal and proper. Most dances require at least four couples to be done properly. Some of the dances did have elaborate footwork, but we’re not going to worry about that. We’ll be concentrating instead on the movement and patterns on the dance floor. We’ll start by learning one of the longer forms, the cotillion. This one is called “The Duchess of Devonshire’s Reel.” Dr. Terrence Rogers will help me demonstrate.”

  The two of them did a credible job showing the various patterns of what was a dance of rather complex parts. After twenty minutes or so the participants were gliding merrily—if not always gracefully—around the room. It looked to Erin as if maybe half of them had done this before, which made Judith’s job easier. Of more interest to Erin was how physically comfortable Terrence and Judith seemed to be around each other—their body language indicated physical familiarity.

  After about an hour, Judith looked at her watch. “Shall we take a little break—say ten minutes?”

  Farnsworth wiped her brow and followed Erin to the beverage table. There were samovars of tea as well as ice water. Erin chose tea—walking in the cold had made her sleepy, and she could use the caffeine.

  “Where’s Jonathan?” asked Farnsworth, pouring herself a glass of cold water. “Did you wear him out, pet?”

  “He probably just got cold feet,” Erin said. “What about Grant?”

  “He had a gout attack, poor thing.”

  “Ouch. My uncle had that—it’s very painful.”

  “I might have to play nurse tonight.”