“He had to leave,” Farnsworth said as Erin approached. “He really does fancy you, you know.”
“Oh, I’m not—”
“Everything all right in the noggin department?”
“It’s all sorted,” Erin said. It wasn’t exactly the truth, but it wasn’t a lie either.
“What’s that in your hand?”
“Oh, just some instructions—”
“Let me have a look,” Farnsworth said, grabbing it before Erin had a chance to object. “Hmm, this doesn’t sound like you at all,” she remarked, studying it. “Good thing you have Aunty Farnsworth to help you.”
“Look, I’ll be—”
“Fine? I’ll make certain of that. Come along—it’s time we get back. I’m famished.”
“What about the scone?”
“That was lunch, pet. And now I’m thinking about dinner. Duck with sage and prune stuffing. Roasted rosemary potatoes, courgettes in fennel and garlic.”
“That sounds heavenly,” Erin said, realizing she was incredibly hungry too.
“I think I’ve memorized the menu by now,” Farnsworth said as they left the building and headed to the carpark. It was colder now—there was no sign of the sun behind the cloud cover, and the wind had whipped up. Farnsworth shivered as she unlocked the car. “I hope we’re not in for another storm. So odd to have such a cold winter, with global warming and all.”
“Actually, global warming leads to extreme weather in both directions,” Erin said as they slid into their seats. The interior of the car was so cold their breath fogged the windows, forming ice crystals on the glass.
Farnsworth blew on her hands to warm them. “Good lord, you are a—what is it you call it again?”
“The term is ‘weather geek.’”
“You know,” she said, buckling her safety belt, “I was thinking about reading Highlights magazine as a girl, and how I always used to turn immediately to ‘Goofus and Gallant.’”
“Me too,” said Erin. “I think everyone did, didn’t they?”
“Yes, but why?”
“It’s something to do with the struggle of good and evil—Goofus represents our worst impulses, whereas Gallant displays our better side.”
“But he’s not entirely likable, is he?” said Farnsworth, pulling out of the carpark. “Gallant, I mean. I always thought he was a bit of a twit.”
“Too much virtue signaling?”
Farnsworth laughed. “Something like that.”
“I have to admit, reading about Goofus was more fun.”
“Exactly. Who on earth wants to be around someone who acts appropriately all the time? That’s just irritating.”
“Rascals have a certain appeal, at least in fiction.”
“Some women have an affinity for them.”
“Not you, surely.”
“Perish the thought. Though Dick Deadeye was a bit of one,” Farnsworth said, referring to her late ex-husband. She had a number of unflattering nicknames for him—Dastardly Dick, Dick the Prick, Quickie Dickie, and so on. Dick Deadeye was the villain in H.M.S. Pinafore, one of Gilbert and Sullivan’s most popular operettas.
“But that’s not what you liked about him, was it?” Erin said as they drove past the fish and chips shops, cafés, and Chinese takeaways frequented by the city’s large population of college students.
“It’s hard now to remember what I liked about him.”
“Rascals can be amazingly charming. That’s how they’re successful, in life and in fiction. Look at Willoughby in Sense and Sensibility, for example.”
“But he really does love Marianne.”
“He loves money more.”
“He’s just weak. I think he’s rather tragic, actually. By marrying for money, he’s doomed to live the rest of his life with a woman he doesn’t even like.”
“He has only himself to blame,” Erin said as they pulled up in front of the hotel.
Farnsworth unbuckled her seat beat and turned to study her. “How do you feel, pet?”
“Better, thanks—but I could sleep for days.”
“Do me a favor and have an early dinner with me first, would you?”
“Right. I’m actually quite peckish myself.”
“Let me check on what Grant’s up to and I’ll meet you in the restaurant in half an hour?”
“Perfect,” Erin said as the parking valet approached the car, a hooded parka obscuring his face. Walking toward them in the gathering gloom of twilight, hands shoved in his pockets, she thought, he could be anybody—Goofus or Gallant. And before you knew which one he was, it might be too late.
Chapter Thirty-Five
“Oh, I shall miss this,” Farnsworth said, taking a bite of duck with prune and sage stuffing. It was an hour before the dinner rush, and the two had the room nearly to themselves. Chandeliers sparkled cheerfully overhead, long white candles on the table glowed softly; outside the windows snow fell gently, a few puffy white flakes cascading from the sky, caught briefly in the floodlights stationed along the building’s eaves. Erin’s breath slowed and deepened; she felt safe, sitting here with her friend, comforted by the hotel’s elegant furnishings. The darkened courtyard behind Mad Alice’s Lane seemed far away, as the pounding in her head subsided and the sense of the world as a dangerous place receded behind the sturdy walls of the Grand Hotel.
“Grant’s gout is still bothering him, then?” she asked Farnsworth.
“He’s a bit better, but apparently his toe is still swollen. I told him it’s the disease of kings, but that didn’t cheer him up much.”
“Is he taking allopurinol?”
“He’s taking something—not sure what.”
“My uncle used to get it, and that’s what he took.”
“Oh, look who’s here,” said Farnsworth.
Erin turned to see Khari Butari enter the dining room, dressed in knee-high leather boots over black pants and a canary-yellow jumper that brought out the mahogany highlights in her lustrous skin.
“Shall we ask her to join us?” said Farnsworth, her jealousy toward Khari apparently softened by a glass or two of pinot grigio.
“Sure,” said Erin, waving at her.
Khari walked toward them, and Erin was struck once again by her beauty and long-limbed grace.
“Care to join us?” asked Farnsworth.
“I don’t want to intrude,” said Khari.
“Not at all. We’re becoming quite bored with one another, aren’t we?” Farnsworth asked Erin.
“Massively bored,” she agreed.
“We’re like an old married couple,” said Farnsworth. “We’ve run out of things to say to each other. We could use some new blood.”
“How are you feeling?” Khari asked, taking the seat nearest the window.
“Better, thanks.”
“She went to hos—” Farnsworth began, but Erin locked eyes with her, shaking her head, and Farnsworth covered by having a small coughing fit.
“Sorry—what?” asked Khari.
“Are you all right in that spot?” Farnsworth said. “It’s so near the window, and it’s cold outside.”
“Fine, thanks—I’m actually quite warm-blooded.” She smiled. “Strange, I know, since I come from a tropical climate.”
“I’m like you,” said Farnsworth. “But Erin is like a lizard—she needs to sun herself every day to survive.”
“Really?”
Erin laughed. “She’s talking rubbish.”
“I am not. You’re always sitting in the sun when I come over to see you.”
“Where is it again you live?” said Khari.
“Kirkbymoorside,” said Erin. “It’s a market town just off the North Yorkshire moors.”
“She runs a used bookstore there,” said Farnsworth.
“How lovely,” said Khari. “I’ve always thought that would be the most idyllic job in the world. Maybe I should do a documentary about you.”
“I’m not that interesting,” said Erin. “I live a pretty quiet
life.”
“Except when she’s out solving murders,” Farnsworth remarked as their server arrived. On duty tonight was Bridget, Christine’s plump, curly-haired colleague. Her mood was understandably depressed following the news of Sam’s death, but she forced a smile as she approached the table. Erin and Farnsworth had already expressed their condolences, but Erin felt guilty about knowing the news earlier but having sworn not to tell anyone.
“What can I get you?” Bridget asked Khari.
“What are you having?” she asked Erin.
“Grilled sea bass and asparagus with hollandaise.”
“I’ll have that, please,” Khari told Bridget, who gave a little nod, turning to Erin and Farnsworth.
“Do you need anything else?”
“We’re fine, pet,” said Farnsworth. “Everything is lovely.”
“I’m glad,” Bridget said, but looked as if she was about to burst into tears.
“What’s the matter with her?” asked Khari when she had gone.
“Have you not heard?” said Farnsworth.
“Heard what?”
They told her about Sam’s death, leaving out the details, merely saying he was found dead in his flat.
“How terrible,” said Khari. “He was such a nice young man. Why would someone like that kill himself?”
“What makes you think it was suicide?” asked Erin.
“Well, I mean, he was so young. People like that don’t just fall down dead, do they?”
“Sometimes,” Farnsworth said ominously. “It’s not unheard of, you know.”
“Have they determined the cause of death?”
“Not yet,” said Erin. “It’s under investigation.”
“That’s so tragic,” she said, though it didn’t seem to dampen her appetite. When the fish arrived, she tucked into it like she hadn’t eaten for days. Erin and Farnsworth exchanged a look as she reached for the bread basket, breaking off a large chunk of freshly baked pain de campagne.
Erin wasn’t sure, but it seemed to her that her friend’s expression said I told you so.
Chapter Thirty-Six
After dinner Erin felt drowsiness overtake her, like a heavy cloak being slipped over her shoulders. She rose from her chair and yawned.
“I’m all in—think I’ll head off to bed.”
“I’ll walk with you,” said Khari.
Taking out her mobile phone, Farnsworth waved them on. “You two go ahead. I’m going to check with Grant and see if I can bring him anything.”
As they walked down the hall toward the lobby, Erin saw Charles Kilroy coming toward them, head down, immersed in a book. Seeing them, his face broke into a smile.
“Why, hello, ladies—what a vision of loveliness in these otherwise mundane corridors.”
“Hello, Charles,” said Erin.
“Ah, Goddess of Grace as always,” he said, looking at Khari. Coming from most men, this would sound creepy or clueless, Erin thought, but Charles presented such an odd combination of awkwardness and innocence that it actually came off as rather charming.
“You may call me She Who Must Be Obeyed,” Khari said with a smile.
“Ha! Ha, ha—well done!” Charles said. His laugh was rather like what Erin imagined the guffaw of a bull rhino would sound like—a low, percussive hoot. She recognized the reference to the cult film classic—Charles did look like someone who would appreciate a classic horror movie. “Where are you off to?” he said. “I mean, if you don’t mind my asking.”
“Bed,” said Erin. “I’m knackered.”
“That is a rather nasty bump on your head. I trust you had it examined by a medical professional.”
“I just need a good night’s sleep. Good seeing you.”
“And you,” he said with a little bow to both women. “Good night.”
“He’s an odd duck,” Khari said when he had gone.
“He is,” Erin agreed. “But quite harmless, I should imagine.”
“Look, I’m not certain, but I caught a glimpse of someone who looked like him on the Ghost Walk.”
“Really? Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“It was just before you disappeared down the alley. I completely forgot about it until just now. And I’m not even sure it was him.”
“Where was this?”
“Just before we stopped at Mad Alice’s Lane. I was going to draw your attention to it, but the tour guide started talking, and I didn’t want to be rude. Then with all that happened, it slipped my mind until now.”
“What was he doing?” Erin said as they reached the lobby.
“He seemed to be following us, but at a distance.”
“Thanks for telling me. Are you coming up?” she asked, standing in front of the lift.
“I think I’ll have a coffee in the bar. Spike makes a good macchiato.”
“Good night, then,” Erin said as the lift doors opened.
“See you tomorrow.”
Alone in the lift as it rose slowly to the top floor, Erin thought about what Khari had said. She didn’t exactly suspect Khari, but she didn’t entirely trust her either. Claiming Charles was on the Ghost Walk gave her deniability, establishing another possible perpetrator in the attack on Erin—if that’s what it was. As the lift stopped on the fifth floor, she had to admit there was a possibility the whole thing was an accident. Farnsworth was right—things fall from balconies, bits of buildings crumble, and sometimes people get hurt. But Erin didn’t think it was an accident.
Back in her room, she opened her laptop. Feeling somewhat reluctant and conflicted about what she was about to do, she typed “Khari Butari” into the search engine. The first few hits were announcements of the release of Girls of Dakar, a link to her website, and below that, reviews of the film. One link caught her eye. It was a review of the movie by Professor Barry Wolf, PhD, Faculty, Trinity College, Oxford.
Taking a deep breath, Erin clicked on it. To say that he didn’t like the film was an understatement. He eviscerated it. Point by point, he picked it apart, and finally dismissed it. The last sentence of the review read, “The young women of Senegal not only deserve a better representation of their lives, they deserve a more honest one.”
Erin’s head felt hot and her vision blurred, though whether from her injury or emotion, she couldn’t tell. Closing the laptop, she stood and went to the window, gazing out at the starless night. If she were Khari Butari, she thought, she wouldn’t just dislike Professor Barry Wolf, PhD. She would loathe him with every bone in her body.
* * *
After falling into bed and sleeping soundly for some hours, Erin awoke to the sound of an owl hooting softly outside her window. Putting a pillow over her head, she rolled over in bed, but she could still hear the owl. Throwing off the pillow, she sat up and looked at the bedside clock. 3:00 AM. The witching hour, her mother always said, when the membrane between the living and dead is thinnest. Erin’s father dismissed this as “Celtic superstition,” a reference to Gwyneth’s Welsh ancestry, but her mother always just smiled and laid a finger next to her nose, indicating her father was the crazy one.
The owl hooted again, and Erin couldn’t help feeling it was summoning her. She thought of the owlet in her famous ancestor’s poem, calling out in the dead of night while the other inhabitants of his cottage lay sleeping, with only the solitary writer at his desk as witness. Perhaps it was a metaphor for the artist in society, the poet attentive to sounds others missed—awake and attuned to Nature while everyone around him slept. The poet and the detective, she thought, ever vigilant, alert to the possibility of as yet undiscovered truth.
Rising from her bed, she threw open the curtains. There, in the gnarled branches of an ancient yew outside her window, caught in the glow of the building’s floodlights, was a solitary tawny owl. Her mother, something of a birder, had taught her to recognize various owl species. Its great dark eyes pierced the night, and seemed to be staring directly at her. Its eyes were less round and more deep-set than other
owls, with furrowed brows giving it the appearance of deep contemplation. The animal continued to peer at her, unblinking, and she had the feeling she was gazing into the eyes of an ancient Druid reincarnated in the form of an owl.
“What have you come to tell me?” she murmured, and the bird raised its powerful wings, fluffing its mottled brown and white feathers. For a moment she feared it would take off, but it settled back onto the branch, preening itself before resuming its study of her.
The owlet’s cry
Came loud—and hark, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings
She listened for any noise from her fellow humans, but the hotel was quiet as the grave. She imagined them all sound asleep in their beds, feeling once again the connection to her ancestor and fellow poet. Rifling through the drawer in the bedside table, she pulled out a pad of monogrammed hotel stationery and a pen, and scribbled a few lines.
The owl’s cry in the dark of night
Disturbs my soundest slumber
And calls me from my bed
Suddenly alert to what lies in the darkness
Standing there in her bare feet and flannel pajamas, she shivered. What lay in the darkness, she wondered, and how could she find it, alone while everyone else slept? She looked back at the tree, but the owl was gone. Creeping back to bed, she pulled the covers up to her chin, but sleep did not come easy, as the events of the past few days tumbled around in her mind. Their meaning remained elusive, evading her grasp; as she stared into the darkness, a solution seemed more remote than ever.
When finally she did sleep, she dreamed of being pursued down crooked cobblestone streets by unknown assailants, while a tall, bearded man in a top hat cackled loudly, his laughter echoing down endless corridors of an ancient, inscrutable city with a violent past.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Death and Sensibility Page 20
