“We have heard of your exploits as a crime solver,” he said.
“Really?” Erin said, surprised. “Who—”
“Everyone talks of how you solved the murder in your town.”
“And we know you think Barry was murdered,” Luca blurted out. “This is true?”
“Yes. I do think it’s likely.”
“It wasn’t us,” said Andras.
“What was it you were about to tell me? Maybe it will exonerate you.”
Luca’s grip on Andras’s arm tightened. She whispered something to him in Hungarian, and he nodded solemnly. Then he turned back to Erin.
“We like you,” he said slowly, “so we will tell you, but you must not divulge this to others. Do I have your word on that?”
She thought about Hemming, and what would happen if she withheld information from the police, but curiosity was burning a hole through her forehead.
“I promise,” she said, her voice tight with anticipation.
“You already know my name is Andras Varga. You have probably guessed I’m Hungarian, not English.”
Erin remained silent, waiting for the rest.
“Luca is my sister.”
Once he said it, it seemed so obvious—they shared the same slim build, straight dark hair, and full lips. Suddenly, it all made sense—the physical intimacy around each other wasn’t sexual at all; it was familial. Erin chided herself for not realizing it earlier.
“Luca married Barry Wolf to save me,” he said. His sister put a hand up to stop him, but he took it gently in his. “She might as well know the whole thing, Luca.” He turned back to Erin. “I became Barry’s assistant after a TED Talk he gave in London. Luca came to visit me about a year later, and Barry …” He cleared his throat before continuing, his voice thick. “He discovered I had fled Hungary because I was being pursued by the government. I was in fear for my life.”
“Barry Wolf blackmailed me into marrying him!” said Luca. “He said if I didn’t, he would send Andras back to Hungary.”
“I was on a work visa as his assistant. All he had to do was fire me, and I would have to leave the UK.”
“Why was the Hungarian government after you? Did it have something to do with your artwork?”
“My painting was controversial. They viewed it as politically dangerous.”
“Andras is a great artist!” Luca declared. “He was doing important work, resisting the authoritarian regime, criticizing them with his paintings and installations.”
“I was a thorn in their side,” Andras agreed, looking rather pleased with himself. Erin couldn’t blame him—she admired political activists.
“Is that why you drink?”
His face darkened, and she was afraid she had made a mistake. His jaw tightened, his body stiffened, and She expected him to explode at her. He took a step toward her. Her instinct was to shrink back, but she held her ground.
“Have you ever been persecuted by your own government?” he asked softly.
She swallowed hard. “No. You must be very brave.”
“Not so brave, since I fled my homeland. If I were really strong, I would have stayed—”
“No, Andras!” Luca said, her dark eyes glistening with tears. “You must not return!”
“Now that you have no employer,” said Erin, “how will you stay in the UK?”
“I don’t know, but I hope to find something.”
“If you go back, I go with you!” his sister said, clutching his hand.
“No, Luca. We will find a way. Now that we have told you,” he said to Erin, “you must not tell anyone.”
“I won’t,” Erin said. She was still suspicious of them both, but she had to admire their sacrifices. Andras had jeopardized his safety, and Luca had given herself to a man she loathed for her brother’s sake. It was like something out of a nineteenth-century novel. “One question,” she told Andras. “Why don’t you have an accent like hers?”
“I was educated here. Our father was a diplomat. I lived with him here, and attended a public school. I lost my accent, and started sounding British. Luca grew up in Hungary with our mother.”
That all made sense, Erin thought, as far as it went. But none of it gave them immunity from suspicion. In fact, she thought, they had just given themselves something key to any murderer: motive.
Chapter Thirty-Three
After leaving their room, Erin wandered the halls until she came to the bookstore. It was a little after ten, and the room was quiet, a few people perusing the tables of books and Jane Austen–related knickknacks—tea cozies and tea towels, aprons and hot pads, as well as various office supplies, boxes of stationery, greeting cards, key chains, and Regency era jewelry. A young woman Erin recognized from the Southern Branch was minding the cash box, her nose buried in a book. She glanced up when Erin entered, and after giving a brief smile, returned to her reading.
At a table near the back of the room, Winnifred Hogsworthy sat amid baskets of knitted goods. She was clad in a multicolored sweater, its rainbow pattern an advertisement for her work. She was busy knitting something new, the long needles clicking as her fingers moved nimbly on her lap. She smiled as Erin approached, and picked up a deep burgundy scarf from one of the baskets.
“This color suits you, don’t you think?”
“It’s very nice,” Erin said.
“I just thought it would look good on you.”
“How much is it?”
“Take it as a gift,” she said, holding it out.
“That’s very kind, but I want to pay you for your work.”
“Please. It would be my pleasure. You have been so kind to me, and I’d like to thank you.”
“Cheers,” Erin said. “It’s beautiful. Thank you so much.”
“Appreciation is all the thanks I need. I’m not addicted to money, like some people I know.” She sighed. “Sorry. Shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”
“No need to wrap it,” Erin said. “I’ll wear it. I’m feeling chilly today, and it’s just the thing.”
“Lovely,” said Winnie as Erin wrapped it around her neck. “It looks perfect on you. That’s a nasty bump on your head. What happened?”
“Oh, it was an accident.”
“That’s quite an accident.”
“I hit my head on the … shower handle,” Erin said, realizing it was a lie she might have to tell more than once. She wished she had given it more thought before being put on the spot, but she was stuck with it now.
“Did you go to hospital?”
“Not yet.”
“You should. Head injuries can be insidious, you know.”
“I will,” Erin said, anxious to leave so she didn’t have to explain further. “And thank you for the scarf. It’s gorgeous.”
“Glad you like it,” Winnie said, returning to her knitting.
As she walked away, she wondered if Winnie’s curiosity about her head injury was just a little too … focused. Or was she overreacting? As she headed down the hallway past the meeting rooms, Erin wondered what Winnifred Hogsworthy was capable of. Or had her wariness of everyone turned into full-fledged paranoia? It was unlikely that Winnie would have ventured out into the cold night just on the off chance she might have an opportunity to kill Erin. She had to admit the most likely person to have attacked her—if that’s what it was—was Khari.
As she swung around the corner to the wide hallway leading to the main ballroom, she inhaled the dark, inviting aroma of coffee coming from the small antechamber Charles had shown her. Ducking inside, she saw the stainless steel urn, full of freshly brewed coffee. Taking a cup from the stack, she filled it with the steaming dark liquid. As she added a dollop of cream, she heard Jeremy Wolf’s voice in the hallway outside. Erin was about to go say hello, when something stopped her. Instead, she stood where she was, the cup of hot coffee warming the palm of her hand.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Jeremy said. It sounded like he was speaking with someone on the ph
one. “It’s just him, isn’t it? Stupid blighter.” He said something else she couldn’t understand, and the conversation ended; she assumed he had hung up.
For a moment Erin thought Jeremy might enter the little room where she stood eavesdropping, and her throat tightened, as she thought about what to say to him. To her relief, though, his footsteps retreated down the hall. It wasn’t until she released the air in her lungs that Erin realized she had been holding it.
Gulping down her coffee, she waited until she was sure the coast was clear before venturing into the hallway. The floral pattern on the carpet was suddenly blurry, and she blinked to clear her vision. The colors were too bright—the blend of lime and dark blue was nauseating. Saliva spurted into her mouth, and she felt her stomach contract violently. Clutching her mouth, she staggered back into the little room, and through the door leading to the ladies’ room. Throwing open the door to the first stall, she vomited profusely into the toilet.
She waited a few minutes before emerging to rinse her mouth out in the sink. Thankfully, she was alone—no one had entered while she was there. Walking shakily toward the lobby, she dug her mobile phone from her jacket pocket and dialed Farnsworth.
She answered on the second ring. “Hello, pet.”
“Are you free right now?”
“What’s wrong?”
“I need someone to drive me to hospital.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m headed toward the lobby now.”
“Do you have your car keys on you?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Erin took a deep breath. The pattern on the carpet still seemed unappealing, so she looked away as she walked slowly down the hall. Her whole body felt unreliable and fragile, and it was as if a fog had enveloped her brain. Peter Hemming was right, she thought, feeling sheepish and angry at herself for waiting so long. If she died, she thought, he would be furious.
Chapter Thirty-Four
“Thanks for doing this,” Erin said as Farnsworth turned out of the hotel parking lot onto Station Rise Road.
“It’s what friends are for, pet. How do you feel now?”
“Woozy.” She did not mention that her head was pounding.
“I’m glad you decided to get checked out,” Farnsworth said. “Remember the tragic death of Natasha Richardson after that skiing accident? She refused medical help, and died from that concussion.”
Erin didn’t answer. She remembered it all too well. Though not about to admit it, she was frightened.
“York Hospital isn’t far,” Farnsworth said, making the turn onto Station Road.
“We’ll be mostly retracing our steps to Sam’s flat, I think.”
“Poor Sam,” Farnsworth said, shifting into third gear and revving the engine.
“Steady on,” Erin said as the little car accelerated rapidly. “We’re not in that much of a rush.”
“You’re lucky I drive a stick shift. If I weren’t so old—”
“You’re not old,” said Erin. “And plenty of people drive a standard transmission.”
“Times are changing, pet. The kids these days want automatics.”
Erin looked out the window as they passed the Yorkshire Museum, with its art gallery and extensive gardens. She had seen pictures of the Roman ruins on the museum grounds, but had never visited them in person. Not on this trip, she thought grimly as her headache intensified.
A few flakes of snow flittered by as they pulled into the hospital driveway.
“I’m going to drop you off at the Emergency entrance,” said Farnsworth, swinging into the circular drive in front of the glass and brick building.
“You don’t have to—”
“Nonsense. You go register and I’ll join you straightaway,” she said, shifting the car into park. “Go on—in you get.”
“All right,” Erin said, climbing out of the little sports car. She swayed a little taking the first few steps, blinking to clear her vision. She turned back to see if Farnsworth was watching, but she had already driven off toward the carpark.
Registration didn’t take long, and Erin was seated in the waiting room when Farnsworth entered.
“Did they say how long it would be?” she asked, lowering herself onto one of the yellow plastic chairs.
“No, but it’s not very crowded,” Erin said, looking around the sparsely populated room. The only other people in it were a young man holding an ice pack on his elbow, and a little girl with her mother.
“I think I’ll see if I can scare up a coffee,” said Farnsworth, getting up. “Fancy one?”
“That would be brilliant,” said Erin, thinking it might help her headache. “It’s on me,” she said, handing Farnsworth a ten-pound note.
“Ta very much, pet,” she said, heading for the lift.
A nurse in blue scrubs came in from the hallway with a clipboard. “Mr. Hawkins?” she said, and the young man rose, cradling his arm with the ice pack.
Erin settled in her chair and flipped through emails on her mobile phone. When she looked up, she was startled to see Detective Hemming coming through the double doors leading to the wards. He looked just as surprised to see her, even though he had insisted she visit the hospital.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hello,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’m, uh, glad you took my advice.”
“Always,” she said. “But what are you doing here?”
“I’m visiting … my mother.” The words came reluctantly.
“Oh,” she said. “Is she all right?”
He glanced at the woman with the little girl, who was engrossed in a Highlights magazine. The mother looked away, avoiding eye contact with him.
“Mummy, why is Goofus so wicked?” said the girl.
“He doesn’t know any better,” said her mother. “His parents don’t teach him how to behave.”
“Why not?” said the girl, squirming in her chair.
“They. Don’t. Have … the patience,” her mother said, her jaw tight. Erin wondered how long her own patience would last with a small child. If childcare was easy, she thought, everyone would do it well.
“I can’t believe they still have Highlights magazine,” she said to Hemming. “I read it when I was her age.”
“Someone should tell her Goofus might have been born wicked,” he murmured, too low for the mother to hear.
“Do you believe that some people are born bad?”
“I’m not a social scientist. But if you’re around criminals long enough—”
“It shakes your faith in human nature?”
“It certainly doesn’t improve it.” He ran a hand through his hair. She could smell his aftershave, woodsy and clean like a forest after a rainstorm.
The nurse in blue scrubs came in again and called the young mother and her child. “We’re a little short staffed,” she told Erin. “It won’t be much longer.”
“No worries,” Erin answered. She turned to Hemming, wondering a little bit why he was still there. She decided to take a chance. “Your mother isn’t doing well, is she?”
She thought he might deny it, but, biting his lip, he shook his head. “No, she’s not. That’s why I brought her here from Manchester.”
“Are you all right?” she said, avoiding saying I know just how you feel. I’ve been through it myself. Precisely because she had been through it herself, she did not want to mention it. This was his struggle, not hers, and she had no desire to revisit her own loss.
“It’s so strange,” he said, “suddenly realizing that someone you thought would always be there … I mean, you knew intellectually she’d die someday, but you put it off as being in the future, until one day you actually face it as reality. You’ve been walking this nice predictable path all your life, and suddenly someone’s built a concrete wall in front of you, and it stops you cold. All you can do is stand there and stare at the wall.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Family, you k
now … it’s in your bones.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I know what you mean.”
He passed a hand over his forehead, damp with sweat. She noticed he had been speaking of himself in the second person. It was remarkable enough he was willing to share this much. Most British people would rather pull out their fingernails than talk about their feelings.
The bell on the lift door dinged and the doors slid open to reveal Farnsworth holding two coffees and scones with cream.
“It’s a decent cafeteria, surprisingly. Oh, hello,” she added, seeing Hemming. “Sorry—I would have brought you a coffee.”
“I’m fine, thanks. Good to see you.”
“Here you are, pet,” she said, handing Erin her coffee, as the nurse entered again.
“Erin Coleridge?” she said. “You can come through now.”
“Here, have my coffee,” Erin said, handing it to Hemming. “You look like you could use it.”
“But—all right, thanks,” he said, taking it.
Erin followed the nurse through the double doors.
Dr. Choudry, the resident on call, examined Erin and listened carefully to her symptoms, a thoughtful look on his face. He was young, thin, and intense, with deep brown eyes and thick black hair. “I’d recommend a CT scan just to be sure. At the very least, you need to rest up and take it easy.”
Erin frowned. “Exactly how easy do I need to—”
“No strenuous activity, avoid eye strain and bright light, and get plenty of sleep. Tell you what,” he said. “Let’s send you up for a scan, all right? It won’t take long.”
“All right,” she said, and followed the nurse to the radiology department on the fourth floor. She actually found the process very interesting, and it was quick—she was back in about ten minutes. Dr. Choudry informed her she would receive a follow-up call the next day once the radiologist had read the results. He gave her an information sheet titled “Concussion Treatment at Home,” basically repeating his instructions.
“Don’t be overly worried,” he said. “Just keep an eye out for a worsening of symptoms, and I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Thanks very much,” she said, and returned to the waiting room, where Farnsworth was sitting in a yellow plastic chair drinking coffee and reading Highlights magazine. There was no sign of Detective Hemming.
Death and Sensibility Page 19
