The mercury dropped precipitously overnight. The next morning dawned bright and cold, a chill wind whipping across the River Ouse, frothing its normally sluggish water into jagged little whitecaps. Erin could feel the change in temperature as she padded over to plug in the teakettle; the wind whistled in the eaves, needles of cold air slipping through tiny gaps in the window panes. Waiting for the water to boil, she gazed out at the old yew tree. There was no sign of last night’s owl, and as the morning sun streamed into the room, her mood of the night before suddenly felt remote.
The sun was too harsh for her eyes, still sensitive to bright light, so she pulled the filmy white inner curtains close to block the glare. Hearing the water burbling in the kettle, she rose just as the automatic safety switch turned off with a soft click. Still groggy from her exertions of the previous day, she added an extra teabag to the pot. Yawning, she stretched her sore muscles, feeling the cold deep in her bones.
Her mobile phone played the familiar opening strains of the Bach B Minor Fugue. She picked it up and flopped onto the bed.
“Good morning, Pumpkin.”
“Hello, Dad,” she said, stifling a yawn.
“You sound tired. Did you get enough sleep?”
“I haven’t had my first cuppa yet.”
“Should I call back later?”
“No, it’s all right,” she said, looking up at the by now familiar ceiling stain. It looked even more like the outline of a body in the light of day.
“Did you get my package?” he said.
“Not yet. What did you send?”
“A yearbook.”
“Of what?”
“You’ll see.”
She sat up abruptly. The sudden movement made her head swim a little, and she felt a bit queasy. “Why are you being so mysterious?”
“Just let me know when you get it.”
“But—”
“Talk later,” he said, and hung up.
She picked up the hotel phone next to the bed and called the front desk.
The concierge picked up on the second ring. “Grand Hotel, Harriet speaking.” It was the nice middle-aged woman who wore too much pancake makeup.
“This is Erin Coleridge. Do you have a package—”
“Oh, yes, dear—I was going to ring you but I didn’t want to call too early.”
“When did it arrive?”
“Let me see … yesterday afternoon. Tricia signed it in.”
Figures, Erin thought. Tricia never struck her as someone who could be trusted.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Shall I send it up?”
“I’ll come get it.” She didn’t want to risk it getting lost in transit. Safer to fetch it herself, she thought as she pulled on her jeans. She gazed longingly at the teapot as she left the room. Tea would have to wait.
The package, a large manila envelope, seemed to be a book of some kind, her name on the address line in her father’s familiar scrawl. His handwriting was full of fanciful loops and expansive whorls, as if it was trying to escape the confines of the page.
After collecting the package from the front desk, she saw Jeremy Wolf lounging on one of the benches lining the alcoves along the wall. He was on his mobile, talking loudly, the way young people did, so it was impossible not to overhear.
“Yeah,” Jeremy said. “Can’t believe we got away with it.” He laughed. “I know—right? I doubt that mystery will be solved. Well, I’ve got to go—talk to you later.” He laughed again. “Yeah, right—bye.”
He rang off and waved at Erin as she headed for the lift. “Hold it for me, would you?” as she pressed the button. He loped across the lobby, and by the time the lift arrived he was standing beside her. She felt her forehead grow clammy. She wiped the sweat off as she entered the lift, Jeremy so close behind her she could feel his breath on the back of her neck.
“I was talking to a college chum,” he said, pressing the button for the third floor. “On the phone just now.”
“No problem,” she answered. There was an uncomfortable pause. “None of my business,” she added, as the door opened on the third floor.
“Hang on a minute,” he said, letting the door close.
She felt trapped, and tried not to hyperventilate as they proceeded to the top floor.
“Hang on,” he said. “You don’t think I did in my own dad, do you?”
“Why should I think that?”
“Everyone knows you’ve been snooping around,” he said, looming over her. She swallowed hard, her heart suddenly beating in her throat. “Look, I was talking about a prank we pulled in school, see?”
“What sort of prank?” she asked as the lift door opened on the fifth floor.
“We snuck into the dining room,” he said, blocking the door from closing. “We played a prank on the chef, see—he was a mate of ours.”
“What kind of prank?” she asked, trying to remain calm.
“We put chili pepper in the tomato sauce. We were just having him on,” he added as the lift door began dinging. “Look,” he said, holding out his phone, “you can call my mate to check on it if you don’t believe me.”
“It’s all right,” she said, backing out of the lift. “I believe you.”
“It was just a stupid practical joke,” he said as the lift doors closed behind her.
Taking a deep breath, Erin stood for a moment to clear her head before walking down the hall to her room. She was inclined to believe Jeremy—though even if he was telling the truth about the phone call, it didn’t mean he was innocent of murder.
Back in her room, she tore open the envelope to find a 1986 yearbook from Trinity College, Oxford. Her father had taped a yellow sticky note to the cover. “Look at page 27.” Hands trembling, she turned to the page as instructed. There, in the center of a layout devoted to the school literary magazine, the Monthly Review, was a photo of a much younger Terrence Rogers, his arm around an equally fresh-faced Barry Wolf. Towering over them, his hand on Barry’s shoulder, was Grant Apthorp. All three men smiled broadly at the camera, as if pleased with themselves and their position in the world, poised at the beginning of what promised to be glittering careers. Next to Grant, wearing a slightly less confident smile, was Judith Eton. The caption beneath the photo read “Monthly Review Editorial Staff.”
Apparently a lot had happened since those halcyon school days, some of which she knew about. But clearly there was a lot more to it than she realized. “Thanks, Dad,” Erin murmured, studying the latest piece in what was becoming an increasingly complicated puzzle.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The first thing she did was to call Prudence to find out Judith’s Eton’s room number. Pru was in charge of making sure the VIPs got the best rooms, and she informed Erin that Judith was on the third floor, her son in an adjoining room. Erin didn’t fancy interrogating Grant, and Terrence’s rather imposing reserve made him an equally unattractive source. While Judith wasn’t exactly the touchy-feely friendly type, at least she was another woman. Leaving her phone in the room to charge, Erin slipped out and took the stairs down to the third floor.
The halls were quiet; most people had probably left their rooms for the day. The morning panels had already begun, and the restaurant was still serving late breakfast. Judith’s room was at the far end of the hall, and Erin walked down the long corridor, keenly aware of the creak of old floorboards beneath the crimson carpet with its gold trim. She didn’t expect Judith to be in her room, but it was worth a try. This was not the kind of thing you talk about over the phone—she needed to have this conversation face to face.
Room 332 was the last one on the left before the fire exit at the end of the hall. Ignoring the Do Not Disturb sign dangling from the doorknob, Erin lifted her hand to knock on the door, but it seemed to be slightly ajar. When there was no response to her knock, she pushed it gently, and saw that it was indeed unlatched. Opening it slowly, she poked her head into the room.
“Hello? Judith?” she c
alled. “It’s Erin Coleridge.”
No answer. She could hear the faint clanking of the wall pipes as steam made its way through to the radiators. Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the room.
Erin had a disquieting feeling that something was wrong. The air itself was unnaturally still. There was a stuffy smell, as if no window had been opened in a long time, and nothing fresh had entered the room for quite a while. The queen-sized bed was rumpled, the sheets and blankets in disarray, as if someone had had a bad sleep, tossing and turning all night. Closing the door behind her, she took a few more steps into the room. The smell seemed to intensify, reminding her of … what? A hospital.
When she reached the far side of the bed, she realized why. Lying on the floor between the bed and the window, a dark red stain spreading from her head, was Judith Eton. Erin knew without touching her that she was dead, her blood already soaking into the plush carpet. But Erin bent down anyway and put two fingers to her neck. Her skin was already cool to the touch, and there was no pulse. Kneeling next to the body, Erin attempted to locate the source of the wound without touching anything. It wasn’t difficult. Dried blood encircled a small hole in the right side of her neck, and judging by the pattern on the carpet, it seemed to be the source of the blood. No other wound was visible, nor was there any sign of a weapon under the bed or anywhere else. The amount of blood in the carpet suggested the weapon had pierced the carotid artery—she would have bled out fairly quickly.
Erin avoided touching anything as she examined the room. She knew it was important to keep everything as pristine as possible for the police, but since she was there anyway, she figured it wouldn’t hurt to have a look around. Once the cops arrived, her access to the crime scene would be over. Judging by the blood spatter on the nearby wall and bedspread, Judith had fallen where she was attacked. There seemed to be little or no staging of the crime—the killer likely fled quickly, taking the murder weapon. An examination of the room and bathroom showed no signs of a fight or struggle, and Judith’s fingernails were all intact, with no visible defensive wounds. It seemed to have been a blitzkrieg attack, indicating that she knew her killer, and trusted them enough to let them into her hotel room.
Nothing seemed out of place either in the room or the closet, where Judith’s clothes hung neatly from wooden hangers. Her purse dangled from the hook on the closet door, her wallet poking out of the top, and an expensive set of jade jewelry lay on the dresser. The heavy necklace, bracelet, and matching earrings were laid out in a way that suggested they were to be worn with the green and black pantsuit Judith was wearing. Her clothes were untouched, and there was no other evidence the assault was sexually motivated.
The truth was obvious and grim. Someone had simply wanted her dead, badly enough to take the tremendous risk of killing her in her own room. And whoever had killed her knew enough about anatomy—or was lucky enough—to hit the carotid artery. Her death would have been swift, Erin thought—at least she didn’t suffer much.
Not wanting to touch anything in the crime scene, Erin avoided using the hotel phone next to Judith’s bed to call the police. Tiptoeing from the room, Erin closed the door softly behind her and slipped out, taking the stairs to the top floor. Letting herself into her room, she scrolled through her phone’s contact list until she came to Det. Peter Hemming. He answered on the third ring.
“Erin?”
So she was in his contact list as well, she thought with satisfaction.
“I think you’d better send someone over here as soon as you can.”
“Why?”
“There’s been another murder,” she said, emphasizing another.
“Who?”
“Judith Eton.”
“Are you sure it’s—”
“I discovered the body. She was killed in her room.”
“Are you there now?”
“I’m in the lobby.”
“Can you go back up and make sure no one disturbs the crime scene? I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“All right.”
“Don’t tell anyone about it, okay?”
“Sure.”
“And don’t touch anything.”
“I won’t,” she said, pretending to be irritated. She had no intention of telling him she had already examined the crime scene, though she had avoided touching anything.
“And Erin—?”
“Yes?”
“Please be careful.”
“I will,” she said, pleased by the concern in his voice. As she was slipping the phone back into her pocket, Jonathan Alder entered the lobby from the hallway. Seeing her, he waved. Normally she would be happy to see him, but now he was an obstacle to her mission.
“Hello,” he said, approaching her, smiling. He looked fully rested, as fresh and bouncy as his sleek black curls. He wore black trousers and a powder-blue button-down shirt that set off the deeper blue of his eyes. In contrast to Peter Hemming’s rumpled exhaustion, Jonathan looked as if he had just had about nine hours of sound sleep.
“Hello,” she said.
“Good morning, Miss Coleridge,” he said in a posh accent, with a little bow. “I must say, you are a veritable breath of fresh air.”
“Thank you,” she said, heading toward the lift.
“I’m practicing my Regency speech, to get in the mood for the ball tomorrow,” he said cheerfully, walking alongside her. “Hetty suggested it.”
“Good idea,” she said, distracted.
He frowned. “You all right?”
“Sorry, I’m just—”
“Did you hurt your head?” he said, peering closer. “It appears you have a bruise.”
“Yeah, I just bumped it on the, uh, bedpost.”
“Ouch. Did you have it looked at?”
“I did, thanks,” she said, ringing for the lift.
“Head injuries are no joke. You know, once in a rugby match, I made the mistake of tackling a bloke with my head. Broke my nose, had to leave the game.”
“That must have hurt,” she said as the lift arrived.
“There was a lot of blood, but it wasn’t as bad as it looked.”
“See you later,” she said, stepping inside.
“Wait—I’ll join you,” he said, and her heart sank. Jonathan’s room was on the third floor. She would have to ride up to the top floor and circle back. “I’m looking forward to the ball,” he said. “Even if I missed the dance lesson.”
“Why didn’t you show up?” she asked. The machinery whirred softly as they ascended slowly to the third floor.
“I lay down for a few minutes, and that turned into an hour. I guess walking the wall with you wore me out. I heard you went on the Ghost Walk later on.”
“Yeah,” she said as the door opened on the third floor.
“Can’t keep up with you,” he said, cocking his head to one side so a loose lock of hair fell over one eye. He looked like he was waiting for an invitation.
She gave only a vague smile in response, but a part of her contracted with disappointment when the door closed, leaving her alone in the lift. When she reached the top floor, she walked to the end of the hall and took the back stairs down to the third floor. Peering through the glass at the top of the fire door, she waited until the hallway was empty before slipping into the corridor. Positioning herself next to the room, she switched her phone from ring to vibrate and leaned against the wall, standing guard until the police showed up.
She didn’t have long to wait. The lift soon arrived, carrying Detective Hemming, Sergeant Jarral, and several crime scene techs in white jumpsuits. Jarral was dapper as ever in a russet-colored suit and matching tie; his smooth black hair appeared freshly cut. He greeted her with something less than his usual friendliness, and she felt a little guilty about pumping him for information about Sam’s death—but not too guilty. Each turn of the screw proved her initial suspicions correct.
“You all right?” Hemming said when he saw her.
“Fine, thanks.”
/> “I never should have asked you to watch the room—I’m sorry.”
“No harm done.”
“It was too dangerous.”
“I’m fine,” she repeated.
“No one’s been in or out of the room?” Hemming asked as Jarral opened the door with a master key card.
“Not that I saw,” she said. “I went here straightaway after we spoke.”
“Thanks,” he said as Jarral and the crime scene technicians entered the room.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” she said, turning to leave as her mobile vibrated in her pocket. She switched it off without looking to see who was calling.
“Hang on a minute,” he said. He looked even more haggard, with gray circles under his eyes, his thick blond hair shaggy, in desperate need of a trim. “I just have a few questions.”
“All right.”
“You found her directly before you called me?”
“Yes,” she said, not mentioning the ten minutes or so she spent poking around.
“And you touched nothing?”
“No.” That, at least, was true. “Other than to check for a pulse. Her skin was cool to the touch, so—”
“What were you doing in her room?”
“I came to talk to her about something, and found her dead.”
“How did you get in?”
“The door was ajar. I went in and saw her on the floor.”
“Did you see anyone in the corridor?”
“No.”
“All right,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “That’s all for now, thanks.”
“Let me know if I can help in any way.”
“You can help by keeping this to yourself.”
“How long do you think it will be before word gets around that a couple of coppers with a retinue of crime scene technicians just happen to be poking around the third floor?”
“I’d appreciate it if you would avoid revealing any details about the crime scene, at least for now.”
“Including the fact that I discovered the body.”
“Especially that.”
“I can’t even tell Farns—”
“Please don’t tell anyone.”
“Okay,” she said. “I won’t.”
Death and Sensibility Page 21
