Death and Sensibility

by Elizabeth Blake

  “Any idea which one?”

  “I think it was that one,” Erin said, pointing to a building with dark windows. “But I can’t be sure. Everything is a little fuzzy right now.”

  “Let’s get you home,” said Khari.

  “What about the Ghost Tour?”

  “I’m sure they’ll manage without us.”

  “So no one saw me go down the alley?”

  “No. We had moved on down the street when I realized you had disappeared, so I came back to the last place I had seen you.”

  “How did you know to look for me down the alley?”

  “I guess I’ve heard enough about you to suspect you were snooping around on your own.”

  “Hmm,” said Erin. She wasn’t entirely sure she believed Khari, but couldn’t think of any reason she would lie—unless, of course, she was responsible for the attack. But that seemed a stretch, and Erin couldn’t think too clearly just now. “I just don’t understand where it could have gone,” she said, searching the ground one final time.

  “Maybe it rolled underneath one of these old buildings,” Khari suggested. “There are a lot of gaps in the foundations.”

  Erin flashed the torch around one more time. It was true—some of the buildings had gaps and holes where stones were missing or chipped. She rubbed her aching forehead, which was tender to the touch. She needed to get back to the hotel, to be alone in her own room, to sort out what had happened.

  “Should we call an Uber?” asked Khari.

  “All right,” Erin said, casting one last look around the courtyard before following Khari back down the alley and into the crooked, twisted streets of York.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “You must tell Detective Hemming!” said Farnsworth, spearing a forkful of rocket from her salad plate. She and Erin were having dinner at The Rise—or rather, Farnsworth was. Erin felt queasy, and didn’t have much appetite. After their return to the hotel, Khari had retired to her room for a hot bath, and Erin had accepted Farnsworth’s invitation to join her for a late dinner.

  The room was sparsely occupied; most people had eaten earlier. A couple of Society members Erin had seen in the audience at panels were finishing their dessert. Both ladies were from the Southern branch, and seemed to be having a lovely time, laughing and chatting over crème caramel and espresso. Christmas music played softly over the loudspeakers—Harold Darke’s setting of Christina Rossetti’s poem “In the Bleak Midwinter.” Hearing it, Erin tuned out what Farnsworth was saying for a moment—she had always thought the choral piece was the most perfect setting of one of the best poems ever written.

  “Are you even listening to me?” Farnsworth snapped.

  “Sorry,” said Erin.

  “Seriously,” Farnsworth continued, “it doesn’t sound like an accident. It sounds like someone is out to get you.”

  Erin had to agree there was something fishy about the whole thing. She didn’t like to admit it, but she was frightened.

  “On the other hand,” said Farnsworth, “I remember a few years back a woman was killed in New York by an ornamental bit of mortar that fell off a building.”

  “That’s the thing. It was a windy night, and I might just have been unlucky.”

  “Do you remember an especially strong gust of wind just before it fell?”

  “Not really.”

  “How long were you out?” Farnsworth asked, tearing off a piece of hot homemade bread from the loaf in the basket and smearing it with yellow butter. Inhaling the yeasty aroma of fresh bread, Erin’s mouth began to water—maybe she was at bit hungry after all.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t look at my watch before I was hit.”

  “So it’s possible someone removed the object from the courtyard?”

  “Definitely.”

  “And that someone could have been Khari Butari.”

  Erin frowned. She knew Farnsworth was jealous of her new friend, but she had to admit Farnsworth was right. Khari could have removed the object that hit Erin, which would mean she was … Erin didn’t like to think about that. She liked Khari Butari, and wanted very much to believe in her innocence.

  “Where’s Grant?” she asked.

  “Still nursing his gout. I think he’s embarrassed about it. Apparently it’s very painful.”

  “Where does he have it?”

  “His big toe—can’t wear shoes or put any weight on it. I offered to bring him dinner, but he said he’d just call room service.” Farnsworth took a bite of vol-au-vent, a puff pastry stuffed with chicken in creamy béchamel sauce with leeks. “What about Jonathan—where did he go off to?”

  “I haven’t seen him since our walk this afternoon.”

  “I wonder what it’s like to know your father was … well, you know.”

  “A murderer?”

  “Does he ever talk about it?” Farnsworth said, squirting lemon juice over her roasted asparagus.

  “No.”

  “I wonder if it runs in families.”

  “Even if you inherit a propensity toward violence, genetics isn’t destiny.”

  “Do you feel safe around him?”

  “I do, yeah.”

  “So where is he?”

  “He probably just fell asleep,” Erin said, yawning.

  “You look like you could use some sleep, pet,” Farnsworth said, wiping her mouth delicately with a linen napkin.

  “That smells amazing,” said Erin.

  “Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat?”

  “You know, I think I’ll have something after all,” Erin said, signaling the server. It was the same waifish blonde girl she had questioned earlier in the day. “Hello, Christine,” she said as the girl approached.

  “Hello, Miss.” Christine’s eyes looked redder than before, as if she had been crying. Erin wondered if Hemming had informed the hotel staff about Sam’s death.

  “Are you all right, Christine?”

  “Yes, Miss,” she said softly. Her presence was wispy as a whiff of smoke, as if she might vaporize any minute.

  “You look tired.”

  “It’s been a long day, is all. Sam didn’t show again t’night, so I had t’cover his shift.”

  So the staff didn’t know yet. Erin wondered what Hemming was waiting for—surely they had notified the family by now.

  “I’ll try not to be too much trouble,” Erin said.

  “Oh, it’s no trouble, Miss. What would you like?”

  “A bowl of soup would be lovely, if you don’t mind.”

  “What kind would you like?”

  “Cream of asparagus, I think.”

  “Yes, Miss—right away,” she said, turning to Farnsworth. “Can I get you anything, Miss?”

  “No, thank you—everything is lovely.”

  “I’ll be right back with your soup, then,” she told Erin, and turned to go.

  “Oh, Christine?” Erin said.

  “Yes, Miss?”

  “Thanks for your help this afternoon.”

  Fear flitted across her face. It was just for an instant, but it was unmistakable.

  “You’re welcome, Miss. Please let me know if you hear anything about Sam.”

  “I will, thank you.”

  When she had gone, Farnsworth leaned in toward Erin. “What’s with her? She looked like a pack of devils was after her.”

  “Didn’t she just,” Erin agreed.

  “And what’s with the Oliver Twist routine?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s like someone straight out of Dickens. ‘Yes, Miss’ and ‘No, Miss’ and all the rest of it.”

  “Maybe it gets her bigger tips.”

  “What were you thanking her for?”

  “I asked some questions of the wait staff this afternoon, and she was helpful.”

  “Oh?” Farnsworth said, taking a sip of Malbec. “What about?”

  “Sam.”

  Farnsworth sighed. “Poor fellow. The staff don’t know yet, do they?”
/>   “No, and I promised Detective Hemming I wouldn’t tell them.”

  “How’s your head, pet?”

  “Fine,” Erin said, but the truth was she had a pounding headache, and her vision was a little blurry.

  “You really should get it checked out in hospital. What if it’s a concussion?”

  “Then you’ll have to stay up all night with me making sure I don’t fall asleep.”

  Farnsworth laughed. “Don’t threaten me, pet—I’d be only too happy to stay up watching Christmas movies.”

  “Now you’re threatening me,” Erin said as Christine arrived with her soup.

  “Thank you,” she said when the girl set it down in front of her, but Christine lingered by the table as though she wanted to say something. “This looks brilliant,” Erin said, but still the girl stood where she was.

  “Uh, Miss?”

  “Call me Erin.”

  “I didn’t want to say so in front of Bridget, but, well …” She swallowed hard. “Sam seemed—well, spooked, I s’pose.”

  “When was that?”

  “Sunday. It was around brunch time. I noticed he just seemed frightened. Like he was lookin’ over his shoulder or somethin’. I don’ know if anyone else noticed, but … well, I thought you might like to know.”

  “Thank you, Christine—I appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome, Miss.”

  “Erin.”

  “Right—sorry,” she said, her pale cheeks flushing red as she scurried away.

  “Sunday,” said Farnsworth. “That’s the day before he—”

  “Yeah,” said Erin, looking down at her soup, her appetite vanished. The pale-green liquid with bits of asparagus floating in it suddenly looked utterly unappealing, and she fought to contain her nausea as she wrestled with the idea that whoever killed Sam had just tried to kill her.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Erin intended to call her father, but by the time she reached her room, barely had enough energy to pull off her clothes before falling into bed. She awoke ten hours later, her neck stiff and sore. Her forehead was still tender to the touch, but the headache had largely disappeared. And she was utterly, undeniably ravenous. After a quick shower, she pulled on a powder-pink jumper over black jeans, ran a brush through her tangled hair, and headed out to breakfast.

  When she got off the lift, she was startled to see a familiar Citroen parked in front of the hotel. She was halfway across the lobby when she heard a voice behind her.

  “What were you thinking?”

  She spun around to see Detective Hemming coming toward her. He looked terrible. His usually tidy blond hair was uncombed, his jacket rumpled, his face was pale and drawn. Clumps of snow clung to his shoes.

  “Excuse me?” she said.

  “You should have gone straight to hospital! You could have a concussion, for God’s sake!”

  “I’m fine.”

  “How do you know? You could have at least had a doctor look you over. A concussion is no laughing matter—you might have died.”

  She was aware the nosy hotel clerk, Tricia, was listening to every word, even as she pretended to file a pile of papers behind her desk. Erin fought the urge to laugh, an unfortunate reaction she sometimes had to stress. Hemming looked so overwrought, standing there in his wrinkled jacket and damp shoes. Looking at him, she melted a little.

  “I’ll go soon—I promise.”

  “People have died from ignoring concussions, you know.”

  “How did you know what happened?” she asked.

  “Your friend told me.”

  “Farnsworth?”

  “Yes.”

  Erin frowned. Your friend. “She has a name, you know.”

  “I’m sorry—I’m just … it’s been a long—I have a lot going on right now. Please accept my apology.”

  “Okay,” she said, feeling like a cad for confronting him. It was obvious he was distressed, distracted, and not at all himself. “You didn’t come here just to talk to me?”

  “No,” he said, wiping the sweat from his forehead, even though the lobby was not warm. “I have to inform the staff about—you know.”

  “I understand,” she said, glancing over at Tricia, who immediately looked away, caught in the act of eavesdropping. A flush crept up her neck, reaching her highlighted blonde curls.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” Hemming said. “I just—I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “Did Farnsworth call you?”

  “No, I saw her in the restaurant when I was getting coffee.” He lowered his voice. “Was it an accident, or do you think someone … is there a reason someone would want to hurt you?”

  She faced a conundrum. If she told the truth—that she indeed suspected someone was after her—he would ask why, and she would either have to tell him or lie about her attempt to track down a potential killer. On the other hand, maybe she was completely mistaken, and the Ghost Walk incident was an accident. Maybe the object that hit her really did roll underneath a building, as Khari suggested.

  “No,” she said. “It was an accident.”

  He gave her a searching look. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. Those old buildings, you know—and it was a windy night.”

  “All right. Look, I’m … I shouldn’t have come on so strong the other night. I mean, what you did was wrong, obviously, but—”

  “It’s all right. I deserved it.”

  “Still,” he said. “I … well, I’ve not slept much lately.”

  She laid a hand on his arm. “I can see that.”

  To her surprise, he seized her hand in his own and pressed it tightly. “You mustn’t think I’m angry with you. It’s just—”

  “I understand. You’re under a lot of pressure.”

  He looked down at her with such tenderness it was all she could do to return his gaze. “Uh, you probably shouldn’t be seen holding hands with a potential suspect,” she whispered.

  “Quite right,” he said, pulling away. “Forgot where I was for a moment. I’d best get on with it,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I need to get back to the station.”

  “Are you investigating this as a suspicious death?”

  “We will be interviewing anyone who knew Mr. Buchanan, including hotel staff and guests.”

  “Have you tested for aconite in Barry Wolf’s death?”

  “The lab is backed up, as usual. I’m sorry, but I have to inform the staff about their colleague.”

  “I understand.”

  “You will get checked at hospital?”

  “I will.”

  “All right,” he said, and walked toward the front desk, startling Tricia. Erin watched as he spoke a few words to her. Nodding, she knocked on the manager’s office door. Erin turned and walked quickly toward the restaurant. She had no desire to watch the manager’s face when she heard the news. She dreaded seeing the staff’s grief—Sam was obviously well liked, and his death tugged at her own past, reminding her of the bleak, lost days following the death of her mother. Sometimes she could think about it without caving in to the pull of grief; other times she felt as if it could swallow her. She walked toward the dining room pondering the randomness of life and death. Cancer had no conscience, no reason; it could come for anyone—unpredictable and ruthless, just like a murderer.

  Back in her room, she took out her laptop and opened the photos she took of Luca and Stephen on her phone. Loading her web browser on the laptop, she went to images.google.com, and uploaded the picture of Luca and Stephen together from her phone. She got a few hits of celebrity couples they resembled, and one of a runway model and her fashion designer, but nothing useful. Then, when she uploaded the picture of Stephen by himself, she hit pay dirt. In a Hungarian publication, she found an article about an art gallery showing in Budapest. There he was, standing in front of a canvas of violent and disturbing images of police attacking a crowd of unarmed protesters. Blood trickled down the side of the canvas, as if it would drip onto th
e viewer.

  When she translated the page, the headline read “Gallery Shows Controversial Artist’s Subversive Work, Braving Government Censure.”

  Beneath his picture, the caption identified him as Hungarian artist and sculptor Andras Varga.

  “Bingo,” she murmured. “Gotcha.”

  It didn’t take her long to find out from the front desk which room Luca was staying in, and when she knocked on the door of the third-floor suite, it opened almost immediately to reveal Stephen—aka Andras—in jeans and a fitted black shirt.

  “Andras Varga?” she said, and his face registered shock, then resignation.

  “So,” he said, “you have been snooping around the internet, I suppose?”

  “Something like that. May I come in?”

  He opened the door to admit her to a suite even larger than Farnsworth’s. Seated on the striped lavender silk sofa, a tea service on the coffee table in front of her, was Luca. The two exchanged a look, and once again she was struck by the obvious intimacy between them.

  “Would you care for some tea?” asked Luca.

  “Thank you, no,” she replied. “I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”

  Luca tilted her head to one side, her smooth black hair grazing one shoulder. “How can we help you?”

  Erin gathered her courage. “Look,” she said. “It’s been clear to me from day one there’s something going on between you two. You can’t hide the truth forever. I already know your name, so you might as well tell me everything.”

  Luca frowned and bit her lip. Andras bent down and whispered something in her ear, and she shook her head. “Come on,” he said. “She’s right, you know.”

  He met Erin’s gaze, his face expressing resignation. “You might as well know,” he said, standing next to Luca. She placed a hand on his arm, and he patted it gently. “There can be no harm in it now, can there?” he said to her. She looked down, still biting her lip. Around him, she was different from the cool, self-possessed woman Erin had first seen in the bar.

  “Look,” Erin said. “I couldn’t understand what you were saying in that room. I don’t speak Hungarian.”

  “No,” said Andras. “I don’t suppose you do.”

  “But I have ways of finding things out. I already know your name.”