But even as she said it, Erin realized it was easier said than done.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Erin took the back stairs up to her room, thinking that Farnsworth could read her like a book. The only way to keep secrets from her was to avoid seeing her altogether. But when Erin arrived at her room, her friend was standing outside the door.
“There you are!” she said. “You weren’t answering your mobile. What on earth is going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“He told you not to talk about it, didn’t he?” Farnsworth said, following Erin into the room.
“Who?”
“Come along, pet,” Farnsworth said, closing the door behind her. “Detective Hemming’s car is right outside, with a big white police van parked behind it.”
“I can’t tell you anything.”
“Someone’s dead, aren’t they?”
“I can’t—”
“Is it murder? It is!” Farnsworth said, studying Erin’s facial expression. “Who’s the victim?”
“I can’t—”
Farnsworth went pale. “Oh God—it’s not Grant, is it?”
“No, it isn’t him.”
Farnsworth sank into one of the armchairs. “Thank God. I mean, it’s not good for anyone to die, obviously, but—” She looked at Erin slyly. “You more or less just admitted someone’s been killed. You might as well—”
“Look,” said Erin. “I’m not going to tell you who it is, but I will say that we’ll have to cancel tonight’s keynote speech.”
Farnsworth’s jaw went slack. “It’s not—oh. It’s Judith Eton, isn’t it?”
“Whether or not you’re right, we’d have to cancel it anyway.”
“It is Judith, isn’t it? Poor Judith,” Farnsworth said mournfully. “I liked her. Who do you suspect? Whoever it is, we have to assume they also killed Barry and Sam.”
Erin shook her head. She dearly wanted to join the conversation, but not until Hemming told her the coast was clear.
“Look,” she said finally. “I gave my word that I—”
“Say no more,” said Farnsworth, lowering herself into the armchair nearest the window. “I understand. You told him you’d stay silent.”
“I can show you this, however,” Erin said, handing her the yearbook. “Look at page twenty-seven.”
Farnsworth did as instructed, staring at the page for a long time before speaking. “Wow,” she said finally. “Where did you get this?”
“My father sent it,” Erin said, plugging in the electric kettle. “Did Grant ever tell you that they all knew each other at school?”
“No. I knew he and Barry both taught at Oxford, but he never mentioned that the three of them attended the same college, let alone working on the same literary magazine.”
“Has he talked about Barry or Terrence at all?”
“Not really.”
“What a strange omission,” Erin said.
“Maybe they weren’t such great chums as the picture suggests.”
“Or maybe they were once, but not anymore.”
“This is a three cup problem,” Farnsworth said as the water came to a boil. “Shall I go fetch some of my private stash?”
“Not unless you want it. The hotel tea is decent.”
“Oh, all right,” Farnsworth said, sighing. “Are there biscuits?”
“There are indeed,” Erin said, producing a packet of McVitie’s. “Chocolate digestives.”
“Well done. I’m glad you came prepared.”
“It’s possible there’s nothing sinister at all about the picture,” Erin said, preparing the tea. “Maybe they just drifted apart over the years.”
“I’ve barely seen Terrence and Grant exchange a single word this whole time,” said Farnsworth. “Doesn’t that strike you as strange?”
“Certainly neither of them seems fond of Barry.”
“I’ll see if I can get more out of Grant.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Nonsense. I want to help. Ta,” she added as Erin handed her a cup of tea. “You’re right, this isn’t bad,” she said, taking a sip. “And the chockie bickies make up for anything it lacks.”
There was a knock at the door. Erin opened it to see Sergeant Jarral standing there.
“Oh, hello,” she said. “Would you like to come in?”
“Just for a moment,” he said, stepping into the room.
“Hello, Sergeant,” said Farnsworth. “Good to see you again.”
“Hello, Ms. Appleby.”
“Please call me Farnsworth. How about some tea?”
“Thanks, no,” he said stiffly. “I just came to ask a few questions of Ms. Cole—”
“Call me Erin.”
“Detective Hemming has a few more questions, so if you don’t mind—”
“Look,” Erin said. “I owe you an apology. My actions got us both in trouble.”
“It’s my fault,” he said, looking down at his shoes. “I never should have—”
“But I’m the one who plied you for information, and I’m sorry.”
“You are persuasive,” he said, his lips twitching into a smile.
“Am I forgiven?”
“I should have known better, obviously.”
“Now that’s settled, how about a cup of tea?” said Farnsworth.
“I could really use one—thanks.”
“Milk, sugar?”
“Both, thanks.”
“Detective Hemming doesn’t let up once he’s on a case, does he?” Farnsworth said, pouring him a cup.
“Actually, I’m worried about him. He’s not himself. He seems … I don’t know, ragged.”
“He looks exhausted,” said Erin.
“It’s this business with his mother,” said the sergeant. “It’s wearing him down.”
“Please, sit down,” said Farnsworth.
“I shouldn’t—”
“Just for a minute,” said Erin. “We won’t tell.”
“You are allowed to enjoy your tea, aren’t you?” said Farnsworth. “Have a biscuit.”
“All right,” Jarral acquiesced, perching on the edge of the desk chair.
“You had some questions for me?” said Erin.
“Both of you, if you don’t mind.”
“Happy to oblige,” said Farnsworth.
“Did you notice any unusual behavior on the part of the victim?”
“Such as—?”
“Did she seem nervous or threatened in any way?”
“No—in fact, she seemed quite relaxed, in spite of being tapped last minute to give the keynote speech.”
“When was that to be?”
“Tonight, as a matter of fact,” said Farnsworth. “Do you think the timing of her murder is significant?”
“I couldn’t say,” said the sergeant. “It does seem odd someone would kill a person to prevent her giving a speech.”
“Unless they thought she might reveal something they wanted kept secret,” said Erin.
“How many people knew she’d been drafted to do the speech?”
“Everyone, I suppose,” said Farnsworth. “We made the decision two days ago.”
“Was there an official announcement?”
“No, but word got around. It certainly wasn’t a secret.”
“Did she have any enemies that you knew of?”
“Not exactly,” said Erin.
“But she did have a past,” Farnsworth added.
“How do you mean?”
They explained what they knew about Judith’s history with various other Society members, including the fact that she was Barry Wolf’s first wife. The sergeant listened carefully, jotting down notes on a pad he balanced on his knee.
“You can use the desk, you know,” said Erin.
“Oh, right,” he said. “Good idea.”
“I don’t know if I should say this,” she ventured. “It’s just a suspicion—more in the realm of gossip, but I have reason to
believe Terrence Rogers may be her son’s biological father.”
“That would be … Jeremy Wolf?” Jarral said, consulting his notes.
“Right.”
“What makes you think that?”
Erin told him everything she had observed, including her attempts at eavesdropping.
“You’re what my mum would call a curtain twitcher,” Jarral said.
“She’s always poking her nose in where it doesn’t belong,” Farnsworth agreed.
Erin rolled her eyes. “That’s a load of—”
“It’s true, pet, and you know it. How about some more tea?” she asked the sergeant.
“I’d best be getting on,” he said, rising.
“You know where to find us,” said Farnsworth, escorting him to the door.
“Right,” he said. “Thanks for the tea and biscuits.”
“Did you see his hands?” Farnsworth said when he had gone.
“What about them?”
“They were perfectly manicured. Like a model.”
“You fancy him.”
Farnsworth smiled. “No. All right, maybe a little.”
“What would Grant say?”
“God, I wonder if he’s heard yet. I should call him. Shall I help tidy up first?”
“I’ll sort it. You go on.”
“I’ll check in with you later, pet.”
After Farnsworth had gone, Erin sat down to study the yearbook, but found it hard to concentrate; Peter Hemming’s drawn face kept swimming through her consciousness. Finally she got up to put away the tea things.
“He’s a grown man,” she muttered as she rinsed out the pot in the bathroom sink. “He can take care of himself.”
But with an increasingly bold killer stalking the conference, she wondered if any of them could take care of themselves.
Chapter Forty
After she finished tidying up, Erin sat down in an armchair and gazed out the window, trying to quiet her mind. There were so many disparate elements—three deaths, all of them totally different: poisoning, strangulation, and a stabbing. What was the pattern? What kind of killer uses such varied methods?
She wondered if there was more than one murderer. Statistically unlikely, perhaps, but it might be a better explanation than the idea that this was all the work of one person. She knew it was important not to get too attached to any one theory of a crime. That could lead you to miss important clues just because they don’t fit your assumptions.
Taking out her poetry notebook, she drew her own version of a murder board. In the center she put the three victims, along with the manner of death. Fanning out from the center, she listed potential suspects so far. To make it more visual, she drew a little sketch of each person. A real police bulletin board would include pictures of the victims and suspects, but lacking that, she could at least do her own version of it.
The obvious suspects included Society members attending the conference, of course, but then she wondered if she should include hotel staff—or any of her friends from the North Yorkshire Branch. She tried to picture friendly, bouncy Jonathan Alder or vain, man-obsessed Hetty Miller as a murderer, but that seemed highly unlikely.
None of her friends had a history with any of the victims. Neither did the hotel staff that she knew of, but one of the victims was Sam Buchanan, after all. Was it possible he was the intended victim all along, and the other deaths were just ancillary? Maybe Barry Wolf overheard something he shouldn’t have. But Judith Eton … if she was a witness to the crime, why keep quiet until she herself was murdered?
Pondering these questions, Erin heard the flapping of wings outside her window. Looking up, she saw the owl from the previous night sitting on the same tree branch. At least it looked like the same one—definitely a tawny owl, easily recognizable from its large round head and light brown and white mottled feathers.
But what was it doing out in broad daylight? Tawny owls were nocturnal, hunting at night and roosting during the day. The animal sat very still, looking back at her, as if it wanted to tell her something. She dismissed the thought as supernatural nonsense, but a shiver threaded its way up her spine as she gazed back at her watchful visitor. The owl blinked once, its long lids closing over the large, perfectly round eyes, so dark she couldn’t make out the pupils.
She remembered a quote from John Ruskin: “Whatever wise people may say of them, I at least have found the owl’s cry always prophetic of mischief to me.” There had been so much mischief already, she thought—what more could the owl portend? Was he there to warn her that she was in danger?
Her right leg began to cramp, and she rose to stretch it. As she did, the bird spread its long wings and took flight. She watched it swoop toward the River Ouse, a silent hunter, approaching its prey so quietly that the unsuspecting animal would be unaware of the owl’s presence until it was too late. She remembered her mother telling her that the bird’s ability came from its small body and large wings, as well as its extremely soft feathers and special sound-dampening wing design. Her mother had imbued Erin with a love of nature and science—her father was more bookish, most content in his study with his feet up on the grate. If it weren’t for her mother, he would rarely have left his office overlooking Oxford’s High Street. Now that she was gone, it fell to Erin to pry him from his beloved books and manuscripts.
As she watched the owl disappear behind low-hanging clouds over the river, Erin wondered what enabled this predator to sneak up on his victims. What made his flight so silent, the strike so deadly? Judith Eton had no visible defensive wounds, which meant her attacker would have pounced as quickly as an owl on an unlucky vole, its talons closing around the animal’s neck before it had a chance to cry out. Judith’s neck had been pierced with deadly precision by something long and thin, by the look of the entrance wound—not a talon, of course, but what?
She wished she could discuss it with Farnsworth, but her lips were sealed, at least for now. She glanced at the blue-striped teapot and matching mugs, drying on the coffee service area over the mini fridge. Over it was a little cupboard well equipped with napkins, a set of small plates, bowls, and silverware. Almost like a miniature kitchen … an image floated into her head, of an item that would certainly be in a well-stocked restaurant kitchen.
Throwing on her cardigan, Erin grabbed her key card and left the room, hurrying down the hall without looking back.
Chapter Forty-One
When Erin reached the first floor it was clear word had gotten around about the police presence in the hotel. A small crowd had gathered in the lobby; some clustered in groups, talking softly, while others stood, arms crossed, staring out at the lineup of police vehicles. Behind Hemming’s Citroen were a couple of yellow and white police cars, the white crime scene van, and behind that, an ambulance. Erin’s stomach tightened when she saw the ambulance. She hoped to avoid Shanise. She knew the medic didn’t like her, but Erin was also angry at being ratted out, and wanted to avoid the temptation to confront her. She imagined the city of York had enough EMT workers that someone else was probably on duty, but she scurried through the lobby, just in case.
As she entered the dining room, Erin realized she hadn’t eaten a proper meal all day, and the buttery smell of simmering soup made her mouth swim with saliva. The lunch service was over, which Erin saw as an excuse for poking around. The wait staff was nowhere to be seen, and she slipped through the swinging door into the large, well-equipped kitchen. A couple of young men wearing rubber aprons were rinsing dirty plates and loading them into the large stainless steel dishwasher at the far end of the room, with more dirty dishes lined up on the conveyor belt.
On the other side of a center island, gleaming pots and pans hanging from its racks, a young man in a white apron and matching cap over a mass of ginger curls was chopping herbs on a wooden cutting board. He looked up as Erin entered.
“Can I help you, Miss?”
“I missed the lunch service,” she said, her eyes roaming the room. “Would it be
possible to get a bowl of soup?”
He put down his knife as a brisk, middle-aged blonde woman in a chef’s hat entered from the pantry.
“What is it, Billy?” she said in response to his look, not seeing Erin.
“She asked if she could have some soup,” he said, indicating Erin.
The woman bent down and gazed at her through the gap between the counter and the hanging pans.
“I don’t see why not. Fancy some cream of broccoli?”
“Brilliant, thank you.”
“I’ll fetch it,” said Billy, going to the pot simmering on a large gas stove next to an industrial double sink. On the other side of the stove, Erin saw what she was looking for—a stoneware crock containing several dozen long metal skewers.
“Mind if I ask a question?” Erin asked the chef.
“How do we feed so many people from this kitchen?” she said, coming around to Erin’s side of the island. Her name tag identified her as Constance Moore.
“Well, that’s massively impressive, obviously. But I was wondering if you were missing any skewers,” she said, pointing to the stoneware crock on the counter.
“Why?”
Erin realized she had no ready lie prepared. “I may have seen one in one of the meeting rooms. Don’t know how it go there, but—”
Constance Moore laughed. “You wouldn’t believe what disappears from this kitchen, and the strange places where things turn up.”
“So are you missing one?”
“I don’t keep track of how many we have at any given time—do you know, Billy?”
“Sorry, no, Chef,” he said, bringing Erin her soup. “Would you like it to go, Miss?”
“Yes, please, if you don’t mind.”
He poured the soup into a lined cardboard container and put that in a paper bag. “Crackers?”
“Lovely, thanks. What about ice picks?” she asked. “How many of those do you have?”
“Two.”
“Either of them missing—”
“Both accounted for,” said the chef. “You’re with the conference, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I’m one of the organizers.”
“Why all the questions?”
“Well,” Erin said, stalling for time. “The fact is—”
Death and Sensibility Page 22
