Death and Sensibility

by Elizabeth Blake

  Studying him as he was escorted to a table, Erin couldn’t help wondering if it was all an act to divert suspicion away from himself. Was he the one who had pointed the police toward Winnie—had he planted the knitting needle during the time Erin was away from the room? Anyone could have gotten into the room during that time; she had left the door ajar, just as she found it.

  Shortly after Terrence was seated, Jeremy Wolf entered the room. He too looked as if he been crying, but by no means as devastated as Terrence. He nodded at Erin’s table as he passed; she caught his eye and nodded back.

  “Do you think we should speak to him?” Hetty said as he walked away.

  “Best leave him be for now, don’t you think?” said Grant.

  “Poor boy,” said Hetty. “Lost his mother and his father in the same week.”

  If Barry Wolf was really his father, Erin thought.

  The sound of raised voices made them all turn and look at the back of the room, where Jeremy was standing over Terrence, talking so loudly everyone in the restaurant could hear.

  “It’s all your fault!” Jeremy shouted at him. “You convinced her to come to this bloody conference!”

  “I did nothing of the sort,” Terrence replied. “She came of her own free will.”

  “That’s bloody nonsense and you know it!”

  Terrence looked around nervously. “You’re making a scene. Everyone can hear you.”

  “Let them, then! I’m sick and tired of secrets!”

  “Jeremy, please—” Terrence said, rising and taking the boy’s elbow.

  “Don’t you touch me!” Jeremy said, pulling away.

  By that time, the beefy security guard had reached them, covering the length of the restaurant so quickly it looked as if he was on wheels. Swooping down on Jeremy, he clapped a heavy hand on the young man’s shoulder.

  “Come along, now, laddie,” he said softly, but there was no mistaking the implied threat in his voice.

  “I’m not going anywhere!” Jeremy said, pulling away.

  The guard grabbed both of his wrists, pinning them behind his back in one swift movement, so quickly Jeremy had no time to react.

  “Ow!” he said. “Loosen up, will you?”

  “You can either come now quietly, or I can remove you by force. Your choice, mate.”

  “Let me go,” Jeremy said between clenched teeth.

  “You going to behave?”

  “All right. Just don’t touch me!”

  The guard released his hold slowly, and Jeremy complied. Head down, he shuffled out of the room, with his escort right behind him.

  “That was interesting,” Hetty remarked when they had gone.

  “Poor Terrence,” said Farnsworth.

  “I wonder what that was all about?” Prudence mused.

  “Emotions are running high,” said Jonathan. “You can hardly blame the lad for being upset.”

  “But why take it out on poor Terrence?” asked Hetty.

  Erin had an idea of why, but remained silent. Glancing over at Terrence Rogers, she saw him rise from his table and signal for the check.

  Erin yawned. “I’m knackered. I think I’ll turn in,” she said, signaling for the bill.

  She finished paying it just in time to follow Terrence Rogers as he left the restaurant.

  “Professor Rogers,” said she, catching up with him in the hall.

  “Oh, please call me Terrence,” he said. All the vinegar had drained from his personality; he seemed meek, defeated. “How’s your head? I heard you got a bit banged up.”

  “Better, thanks,” she said, wondering how much he knew. But only she, Farnsworth, and Khari knew what actually happened—apart from whoever had tried to kill her.

  And Detective Hemming, of course. She wondered what he was up to now—and whether he believed her now that a multiple murderer was roaming the York Grand Hotel.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  “You know,” said Terrence. “I don’t much fancy being alone just now. How about a nightcap?”

  “Why not?” she said, and they turned their steps toward the 1906 Bar.

  The bar was quiet; a few conference members had gathered in front of the fire, and everyone looked up when Erin and Terrence entered. They chose a table by the window, far enough away so the group at the fireplace couldn’t hear them.

  “You didn’t seem to have much appetite tonight,” Erin said as Terrence brought their drinks to the table. Spike was on duty, and it was hard to resist one of his signature cocktails, but she avoided temptation and ordered a macchiato. Terrence was apparently a gin man—the aroma of juniper berries was unmistakable, and four fat olives swam at the bottom of his glass. Martini on the rocks with extra olives, she thought, a drink her father might have ordered—very dry. And definitely stirred, not shaken. She remembered his verdict on Ian Fleming’s notion of how to prepare a cocktail: “Fine, if what you want is a watery, weak martini.”

  Terrence leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples. “I’m just utterly gutted by what happened … good Lord, poor Judith.”

  “Were you and Judith close?”

  “Not really, but we shared … a past. I heard they arrested Miss Hogsworthy.”

  “I heard the same thing.”

  “Good lord.” He shook his head. “Still waters run deep. Never would have thought her capable of that.”

  “You knew her at school, I believe?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she was suspected of vandalizing your office.”

  “No one ever proved she did it. I never believed it was her.”

  “So you and Grant and Barry and Judith were all at school together?”

  He took a long drink from his glass before answering. “Why are you so interested?”

  “You just don’t seem very close anymore.”

  “I’m not best mates with everyone I was at uni with.”

  “But you worked on the literary magazine together.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I saw the picture in your yearbook.”

  “Why on earth were you looking at our school yearbook?”

  “Barry Wolf was our guest of honor. You and Grant Apthorp are conference VIPs. I was doing my homework.” To her relief, he didn’t question this.

  “That was all donkey’s years ago,” he said, staring off in the distance.

  “The three of you look pretty chummy in the photo.”

  “I suppose we were.”

  “What happened? I hope you don’t think I’m being too intrusive,” she added quickly.

  “You are. But I’ve got nothing much on my plate tonight,” he said with a wry smile. “It’s a fairly long story—I hope you don’t have somewhere you have to be.”

  “Only bed. But that can wait.”

  “It’s late,” he said, sipping his drink. “I’ll give you the shortened version. Fancy another coffee?”

  “Thanks, but I’d be up all night.”

  “I don’t imagine I’ll sleep much myself. But the basic story is that Barry is—was—a real piece of work, something that only became clear to me much later, sadly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, I knew he was a bit dodgy, you know—not above cheating on the odd exam, that sort of thing. I didn’t approve, but I thought loyalty was one of his virtues. It wasn’t until later I discovered it was all a front. He was all style and no substance.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I wondered for years why I didn’t get a teaching post at Oxford. After all, I graduated summa cum laude with a double first,” he said, swirling the remaining ice cubes in his glass.

  “But you didn’t?”

  “I didn’t even make it as far as the interview. Which seemed odd, since Barry had been there two years and could put in a good word for me.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I’ll never know exactly, but I learned later that Barry Wolf wouldn’t lift a finger for anyone unless there was somet
hing in it for him.”

  “Including you getting a teaching post at Oxford?”

  “Apparently.”

  “That must have made you angry.”

  He popped the remaining ice into his mouth, chewing it. “That would be a fair statement.”

  “Angry enough to kill him?”

  “If I had, do you think I’d tell you all this?”

  “You said you learned later that Barry—”

  “Last call, ladies and gentlemen,” Spike called from the bar.

  “Sure you don’t fancy another?” Terrence said.

  “No, I—oh,” Erin said, as the right side of her forehead began to throb.

  “What’s wrong? Is it your head?”

  “Yeah,” she said, rubbing her temples.

  “You must get to bed,” he said. “I shouldn’t have kept you up.”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “I know a little something about head injuries,” Terrence said, rising. “Come along. I’ll see you to your room.”

  Erin knew he was right. Her curiosity had gotten the better of her. She had ignored her fatigue, and now she was paying. She was still full of questions, but followed him meekly out of the bar, and didn’t object when he gently took her elbow, escorting her down the corridor to the lift. As he walked her through the quiet halls to her room, it occurred to Erin that if he was the killer, she would be utterly at his mercy.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  But, for whatever reason, Terrence Rogers behaved like a perfect gentleman, making sure she got into her room before turning to head back down the hall. She watched him until he was halfway down the long corridor, half afraid he would turn and charge toward her, a murderous expression on his face. But when he did not even look back in her direction, she closed the door softly behind her, slid the safety bolt over the lock, and exhaled deeply.

  After taking two paracetamol, she slipped on her pajamas and slid between the sheets with a sigh of deep contentment. Nothing—but nothing—she thought, had ever felt better than the clean cotton sheets and soft, yielding mattress of her bed in her attic room at the York Grand Hotel. The last thing she remembered was thinking she should turn off the bathroom light, but before she could act on the impulse, sleep claimed her.

  She awoke to bright sunshine streaming through her windows. Cursing herself for forgetting to close the drapes the night before, she crawled out of bed and stumbled over to the windows, closing the curtains just as her mobile phone beeped, indicating there was a text message. She peered bleary-eyed at the bedside clock. The red numerals on its screen proclaimed it to be just short of seven AM.

  “Sod off,” she muttered. Grabbing her phone, she was about to turn it off and bury it in the drawer next to her bed, but curiosity got the better of her. She glanced at the screen, and was surprised to see the text was from “P. Hemming.” She clicked on it with trembling fingers.

  Tox screen back—aconitine poisoning. Score one for you. Please keep it to yourself!!

  “Told you,” she mumbled. “Triple murderer.” Said out loud, the words sounded harsh, unreal. Triple murderer. Technically, that meant they were dealing with a serial killer. The manner of Sam’s death wasn’t official yet, though—or if it was, no one had told her. Wide awake now, she gripped the phone in both hands and texted a reply.

  What about Sam Buchanan’s Manner of Death?

  She sat on the edge of the bed, the phone next to her, gnawing on her fingernails as she awaited his reply. Her phone dinged and she snatched it up eagerly.

  That’s not official yet

  Was the hyoid bone intact?

  She knew fracture of the tiny, U-shaped bone in the throat was highly unlikely in a suicide hanging, but common in strangulation. When there was no reply, she texted him again.

  Please? Promise I won’t tell anyone. Girl Guide’s honor.

  Again she awaited his reply. “Come on, come on,” she murmured, pacing back and forth in front of the windows, her palms sweating so much she had to put the phone down. Finally her phone beeped. Her breath shallow, she stared at his reply.

  Hyoid fractured

  “Yes!” she said, her momentary feeling of triumph followed by sadness, then fear. What were the chances little Winnifred Hogsworthy was capable of strangling the wiry young Sam Buchanan? Cases of women strangling men were not unknown, but they were rare, and would likely involve the man being incapacitated in some way—injury, drugs, alcohol, or some form of disability. She had an impulse to text Hemming back, but he had to be thinking the same thing she was: If they had the wrong person in custody, the killer was still at large.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  After dressing hastily, Erin went down to the dining room, where she saw Khari Butari sitting at a table by the window. Seeing Erin, she waved.

  “Good morning,” she said when Erin approached. “You look tired. How’s your head?”

  “All things considered, could be worse.”

  “Care to join me?”

  “Sure, thanks,” Erin said, sitting with her back to the window so she could watch the room.

  “Coffee?” Khari said, picking up the gleaming metal pot from the table.

  “Yes, please,” Erin said, watching as Khari filled her cup with the steaming liquid, pausing to inhale the rich dark smell before drinking. The first sip of coffee always tasted so good that she liked to prolong the moment, savoring the anticipation nearly as much as the coffee itself.

  “I’m totally gobsmacked about Judith,” Khari said, shaking her head as she filled her own cup. “I really liked her.”

  “I know,” said Erin. “Losing someone is hard enough, but murder … it’s a whole new dimension of horror.”

  “And Winnie—good lord! Do you think she did it?”

  “The police seem to think so.”

  “But Winnie? She just doesn’t seem the type.”

  “One thing I’ve learned is that anyone is capable of anything.”

  “It seems so odd that we’re going ahead with the ball tonight. I heard her son wanted us to hold it to honor her memory.”

  “And the police have asked us not to leave, so what else are we going to do?” Erin said as Charles Kilroy entered the room. He wasn’t dressed in his usual safari gear—he had ditched the leather vest and hat. His khaki shirt and cargo pants still gave the impression of someone about to head into the Outback, even though Charles looked as if he would be more comfortable in a library cubicle than in front of a campfire.

  Seeing the two women, he approached them hesitantly. “Good morning, ladies. I don’t mean to intrude—”

  “Not at all,” said Khari. “Why don’t you join us?”

  “I don’t want to impose—”

  Khari smiled, showing brilliant white teeth. “You are a fan of our work, are you not?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Then by all means, please sit.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  “Not at all—maybe we just like our egos massaged.”

  “Or maybe we just enjoy your company,” Erin added quickly. In spite of his intellectual bravado, she thought, Charles was rather shy and insecure.

  “Terrible news, isn’t it?” he said, sitting across from the two women. “Shocking, just shocking.”

  “Yes,” Erin agreed.

  “I mean, one doesn’t ever expect someone you know will be murdered.”

  “Least of all by someone else you know,” Khari said, handing him the bread basket.

  “I can’t imagine,” he said, taking an almond scone. “Do we know why they arrested Winnie?”

  “I heard something about evidence found in the room,” said Khari.

  “What kind of evidence?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe something belonging to Winnie,” he said, buttering the scone. “Or fingerprints.”

  “Maybe DNA.”

  “Couldn’t be that,” said Erin. “It takes too long to analyze. When did you s
ay you and Barry first met?” she asked Charles.

  “Let’s see … a literary convention about two years ago, I think. In Edinburgh. Or was it Glasgow? I’ve been to conventions in both of them. No, it was Glasgow—I ran into him at the Willow Tea Room.”

  “That was the first time?” asked Erin.

  “Yes—why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  “I live in London,” Charles said. “He lives in Oxford. Why would our paths have crossed?”

  “Let’s order,” Khari said as their server approached the table. “I’m starving.” After refilling their coffee, she took their orders. Erin and Charles ordered the eggs Benedict, while Khari opted for eggs Sardou.

  “That’s an unusual brooch,” Erin said, pointing to the lapel pin Charles wore on his khaki jacket. It consisted of a large amber stone lined in silver, crafted in the shape of a seahorse.

  “Tiger’s eye, isn’t it?” said Khari, studying it.

  “Yes.”

  “To help you ward off the evil eye?”

  “It belonged to my sister,” he answered softly. “I wear it in her memory.”

  “Oh,” Erin said. “I’m so sorry. What was her name?”

  “Sarah. It was many years ago.”

  “It is right that you honor her,” said Khari. “It is wrong for someone to just disappear from the earth without memory.”

  “It keeps her near to me,” he said, his voice thick. Clearing his throat, he reached for the coffee pot. “Right, then,” he said in the best tradition of British forced cheeriness. “Who’s for more coffee?”

  Later, back in her room, Erin flipped open her laptop and typed “Sarah Kilroy” into the search bar. She scrolled past an Instagram account belonging to a pretty, dark-skinned teenager, and skipped past several other links, including the profile of a psychology professor on LinkedIn. Finally, at the bottom of the page, she saw the article: “Suicide of Oxford Student Raises Alarm on Campus.” Her breathing became shallow as she scrolled down, looking for Barry’s name. It did not appear, but when she was identified as a “first year comparative literature student at Trinity,” Erin leaned back in her chair. What were the chances she didn’t come across Barry Wolf at some point? She devoured the article, which coyly omitted certain information, like how she died, who found her, and so on.