Chapter Fifty
She awoke to a loud rapping on the door.
Opening sleep-crusted eyes, she saw that it was dark outside; according to the red numbers on the bedside clock it was 7:04, though for a moment she wasn’t sure if it was AM or PM.
“Erin! Are you in there?”
The rapping continued more insistently. Pulling herself into a sitting position, she called out, “Coming!”
She opened the door to find Hetty Miller, elegant in a long, apricot-colored Regency dress, the traditional high bodice tied with a pale matching ribbon. She held a pair of white dress gloves in one hand and a black lace fan in the other.
“Don’t you look smart,” said Erin, wiping the sleepers from her eyes.
“Well? Aren’t you coming to the dance?” Hetty said impatiently.
“Has it started?”
“It starts in half an hour, and nearly everyone is already there!”
“All right,” Erin said. “I’ll get dressed.”
“Do you have something to wear?”
“Farnsworth got me something at a charity shop.”
Hetty snorted. “Charity shop! One can splurge every so often for important occasions, you know.”
“Actually, it’s very nice. Really,” she added in response to Hetty’s disapproving look.
“Well, come along quick as you can. Everyone’s asking about you—including Jonathan,” she said with a sly smile. “Wait till you see him. Positively dashing. Regency dress suits him.”
“I’ll be down straightaway.”
Still sleepy, she walked barefoot to the closet and took out the royal-blue, short-sleeved gown Farnsworth had bought her, admiring the satin finish as she slipped it over her shoulders. Pulling her thick ginger hair up into a chignon, she wound it with a pale-blue ribbon that matched the bodice ribbon on her dress—also courtesy of Farnsworth. After applying a touch of mascara and rouge, she slid her feet into a pair of pink satin slippers and grabbed the matching purse, into which she stuffed a pair of long white gloves, her key card, lipstick, and a mirror. She was nearly out the door when she remembered her mobile phone—not very period appropriate, but she had come to rely on it, perhaps too much. In the back of her mind was the thought that Peter Hemming might try to contact her.
It was close to seven thirty when she slipped out of the room and hurried down the hall toward the lift. She could hear the faint sound of music coming from the grand ballroom as soon as she stepped into the lobby, passing several uniformed officers. It sounded like a Regency era waltz, she thought as she walked down the carpeted corridor leading to the main ballroom. More policemen were roaming the hall, which should have been reassuring, but only made her feel jittery.
Pushing open the heavy door, Erin was amazed to see how the room had been transformed. Chandeliers sparkled overhead, white lace bunting hung from the tall French windows, and the inlaid marble fireplace was draped in dark-blue velvet. Tables covered in pristine white linen cloths lined two sides of the room; an ensemble of half a dozen musicians sat on a low stage on the far wall. Flowers were everywhere—on the tables, overflowing from tall floor vases tied with pale-blue chiffon, the air thick with their fragrance. Waiters in formal wear circulated with trays of refreshments. Nearly everyone in the room was elaborately clad in period clothing. Maybe it was the festive atmosphere, but Erin thought almost everyone looked better in Regency apparel. The ladies sparkled nearly as brightly as the chandeliers, and the men looked dashing in buttoned trousers, waistcoats, and tails. She looked around for Farnsworth, but didn’t see her.
Khari Butari approached, radiant in a long-sleeved silver gown with black trim. She smiled when she saw Erin admiring the surroundings. “Like it?”
“It’s breathtaking,” Erin answered. “You’ve done an amazing job. It must’ve cost—”
“We had a budget. Raised quite a bit of with jumble sales and charity events.”
“Well, it’s brilliant,” Erin said as the musicians struck up a lively mazurka. No one was dancing yet, but the ball had only just begun. People seemed more interested in the fancy hors d’oeuvres piled on the silver trays carried by the waiters slipping in and out of the crowd of people.
“How about some punch?” Khari said, leading her to a corner table with two huge glass bowls filled with pink liquid. One was labeled “Virgin,” the other “Spiked.”
Khari took two punch glasses from the stack on the table. “Virgin or spiked?”
“Definitely spiked. What’s the base, pink lemonade?”
“And a few other ingredients,” Khari. “We found a recipe for orgeat.”
“Isn’t that a syrup involving orange flower?”
“And almond extract. We added it to the lemonade, as they would have done, along with soda water, and—” she said, dipping the ladle into the “Spiked” bowl, “in this one, plenty of brandy, as well as eighty-proof rum.”
“Cheers,” Erin said as Khari handed her the glass.
Khari lifted her glass. “A votre santé.”
The punch was deeply satisfying, sweet and somewhat floral; the sour lemonade provided a refreshing contrast. Erin realized she was incredibly thirsty after her long nap, and poured herself a second glass.
“Oh look, there’s Jonathan,” Khari said, pointing to a group of ladies flocking around him like gaily colored sheep, fluttering and tittering in their pastel dresses and ribbons. Jonathan was prettier than any of them, in a burgundy-striped waistcoat, charcoal-gray pants, and black frock coat. The red waistcoat brought out the rose in his cheeks, and the black coat set off his glossy curls and porcelain skin. He really was like a Gainsborough painting come to life. Seeing Erin and Khari, he smiled and waved. Erin waved back, though perhaps not as enthusiastically.
“He fancies you,” said Khari.
“I don’t know about that,” Erin said, greedily gulping down her second glass of punch.
“Go easy on that,” Khari said. “It has more of a punch than you think.”
“No pun intended,” said Erin.
Khari shuddered. “Good lord, no.”
The pun made her think of Peter Hemming. She wondered what he was up to, when, to her surprise, she saw him across the room. Taller than most of the people in the room, in a simple white button-down shirt and dark trousers, he stood out amid all the fancily dressed partygoers. A suit jacket was slung over his shoulder; the room was warm, and as she watched, he wiped his brow with a white handkerchief. He did appear somewhat more rested, though. His wheat-colored hair was neatly combed, and his keen pale eyes scanned the crowd. She wanted to run up to him and fold him in her arms, but instead, she plucked a canapé from a silver tray held by a passing waiter.
“What is it?” Khari asked.
“Caviar. With sour cream and lemon.”
“Lovely,” she said, taking one.
Erin also took one, savoring the salty plumpness of the caviar, perfectly balanced by the lemon and sour cream. Before the waiter had turned to leave, she helped herself to another.
“Good, isn’t it?” said Khari.
“I’d eat this every day if I could afford it,” Erin admitted, popping the second one in her mouth.
“Ready to join the dance?” said Prudence, coming up to them. Even she looked better in Regency attire; though she had managed to pick an unbecoming beige-colored frock, her hair was done up nicely, her cheeks were rouged, and she even wore a touch of lipstick.
“You look nice,” said Erin.
“So do you both, but that’s not much of a challenge for the likes of you,” Prudence answered cheerily. “So are you going to join the fun? It seems Hetty has appointed herself dance mistress, and she’s asked me to drum up some support.”
“How very public spirited of you,” said Khari.
“After all, to be fond of dancing is a certain step towards falling in love,” Prudence said with a knowing smile.
“Well done,” said Erin. “Hetty may be dance mistress, but you retain your
title as mistress of Austen quotes.”
“Come along as soon as you can,” Prudence said, bustling off to entreat another group of people to join the fun as the musicians launched into a charming country dance. Between Hetty and Pru’s efforts, a line of dancers was forming. Erin couldn’t hear what Hetty was saying, but she could see her coaching and encouraging the more hesitant participants.
“Good for Hetty,” Khari said. “Shall we lend some moral support?”
“Why not?” said Erin, and the two of them went to join the line of women standing opposite their partners.
“Oh, look who your partner is,” Khari whispered as Jonathan slipped into the line across from her. “Lucky you.”
Erin couldn’t help feeling a surge of satisfaction as envious feminine gazes turned toward her, bodices heaving and eyelashes fluttering in Jonathan’s direction. He was so much like Jane Austen’s easygoing Mr. Bingley that it was impossible not to like him, but even as she admired his beauty, her eyes searched the room for a glimpse of the moodier, Darcy-like Peter Hemming. Not seeing him, she turned her attention back to the matter at hand just as the line of men and women bowed and curtseyed to each other to signal the beginning of the dance.
After a rather rocky start, things settled down. While they didn’t exactly look as though they’d done this their entire lives, after the first couple of patterns, people began to loosen up, remembering the steps Judith had taught them.
As if reading her mind, Jonathan whispered “Judith would be proud,” as he and Erin took hands to skip between the row of other dancers to take their place at the other end of the line.
“Yes,” she agreed as Khari and her partner did the same, following them down the line to end up standing next to them. People seemed to be having fun now, their faces shiny and glistening as they glided around the room with increasing abandon.
As they turned to start another pattern, Erin saw Farnsworth enter the room with Grant Apthorp at her side. Splendid in a rich green gown, her hair upswept in an elaborate layered bun, layered through with pale-green ribbons, Farnsworth had never looked lovelier. She also looked happy, holding Grant’s right arm, his free hand gripping the handle of an elegant carved wood cane Erin had recognized from the dealer’s room. Grant was resplendent in a red cutaway frock coat, snowy white shirt, simple black neck stock, and matching breeches. His bad foot still swathed in gauze inside an open-toed slipper, he sported a gleaming black riding boot with red trim on his good side.
To her surprise, as the dance ended, Grant and Farnsworth headed toward the group of dancers. Grant was walking better than earlier, but still appeared to need the support of his cane.
“Shall we do another?” Jonathan asked, and Erin nodded. She was enjoying herself, and wasn’t going to be put off by Farnsworth, no matter how much of a row they had. She wasn’t about to let it spoil her fun.
The ensemble struck up a charming tune that Erin recognized as “The Duchess of Devonshire’s Reel.”
“Let’s do the cotillion!” Hetty called to the assembled company, and there was some milling about as people struggled to remember Judith’s instructions, but they settled into the right configuration just in time to begin the first steps. To Erin’s relief, Grant and Farnsworth started on the far side of the room, but she knew that the dance would eventually ensure that their paths crossed more than once. To her left, Hetty had partnered with a fresh-faced man young enough to be her grandson. She was glowing, her expression triumphant as she held the young man’s hand. Erin had to hand it her—Hetty was indefatigable.
The assembled company handled the fairly complex patterns pretty well, emboldened by their success in the first dance. Sure enough, in the third pattern, Erin and Jonathan linked arms with Farnsworth and Grant, who was handling himself well, using the cane deftly as he moved about the dance floor.
“So,” Farnsworth said as she breezed past Erin, “I hope you don’t disapprove of my dancing.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Erin said, as the four of them joined hands in a circle before breaking off to join a larger circle of dancers.
“Or my partner,” Farnsworth whispered as the group of dancers circled to the right.
“You’re being childish.”
“Am I?” Farnsworth replied as the circle of dancers reversed direction.
“You’re just trying to punish me,” Erin said as they entered the dance’s final pattern.
There was no more opportunity to exchange barbs with her friend before the dance ended. Relieved, Erin excused herself before Farnsworth could say anything more as the music ceased. The musicians stood up, apparently ready for a break. Seeing Peter Hemming lurking near the punch table, she excused herself to Jonathan and made her way over to him.
“Keeping an eye on us?” she asked, filling a glass from the large bowl marked Spiked.
“Mind how much you have of that,” he said. “I hear it packs quite a—”
“Punch? Been there, done that.”
He sighed. “That’s the trouble with puns. You’ve heard one, you’ve heard them all.”
“And most you wish you’d never heard in the first place.”
“The unkindest cut of all,” he said, miming being stabbed with an invisible knife.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re only allowed to quote Austen here.”
“In that case, I defer to you.”
“There is safety in reserve, but no attraction. One cannot love a reserved person.”
“Do you find me reserved?”
“I was accused of it myself recently.”
“Well, then, can two reserved people love each other?”
Oh yes, she thought, sipping her punch, but she said, “I’m afraid Jane Austen is silent on that subject.”
“I thought she had something to say about everything.”
They both watched as Charles Kilroy wandered into the room. Clad in Regency period dress, he was transformed. In striped breeches, deep-green waistcoat, and black frock coat, he actually looked quite elegant. A watch chain dangled from one pocket; he held a pair of kid gloves in one hand and a riding crop in the other. Seeing Erin, he gave a brief, dignified nod. The costume seemed to have transformed his personality as well.
“What do you know about him?” Hemming asked.
“Didn’t you interview him?”
“Of course, but clearly he knows you.”
“We only just met, but I can tell you he’s a bit of a character. Smart, but odd.”
“The riding crop is a bit of a giveaway there.”
“Unless he has a horse waiting outside.”
“I’m guessing that’s not the case.”
“I doubt he’s ever been on a horse. Why are you here, if you already arrested your prime suspect?”
“We haven’t arrested her yet—we’re holding her on suspicion.”
She looked out over the crowd, her head agreeably fuzzy from the punch, and everything suddenly seemed less dire. A warm haze settled over her as she relaxed into the music, letting it carry her into a place where everyone was a character out of Jane Austen, life was full of Regency ballrooms and rum punch, and murder didn’t stalk the halls of the York Grand Hotel.
Chapter Fifty-One
Shaking herself out of her happy reverie, Erin turned to Peter Hemming. “Someone planted that knitting needle at the crime scene,” she said, surprised to hear the words coming from her.
He turned to look at her. “How on earth would you know that?”
“I looked under the bed when I found Judith’s body.”
“You might have missed it.”
“Miss seeing the murder weapon? Does that sound like me?”
He frowned, the lines in his forehead deepening. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I didn’t want to admit I was snooping around.”
“Were you?”
“I didn’t touch anything, mind you, but I certainly looked under the bed.”
“So when could t
hey have planted it there, if you discovered the body and called me right after?”
She told him about going upstairs to fetch her phone. “I’m sorry—I should have closed the door after me, but I left it the way I found it. I don’t know why.”
To her surprise, he didn’t seem angry. “Never mind—the killer might have had access to the room anyway.”
“You mean they might have got a copy of the key card?”
“Or bribed the cleaning staff. Or picked the lock. Hotel rooms aren’t that hard to break into. A good stiff bobby pin or a rubber band and a credit card is all it takes if you know what you’re doing.”
“But don’t you think the discovery of the needle makes it less likely Winnie is the killer? What kind of murderer incriminates herself like that?”
“People leave all sorts of ridiculous things at crime scenes, especially when murder is involved. Unless they’re professionals, most people aren’t prepared for what it’s like to kill someone. It’s incredibly hard, physically and emotionally. And up close like that—it’s pretty shattering, even if you really hated the person. People think they can handle it, but more often than not, it hits them harder than they thought, and they make stupid mistakes.”
“Seen a lot of murders in York, have you?”
“I worked a London beat for a while before coming here.”
“Why did you leave?”
“To be closer to my mother. And I missed Yorkshire.”
“I like it here too,” she said, feeling the heat of his body next to her. She moved a little closer, and he didn’t back away as the back of her hand touched his. She breathed a deep sigh of contentment as they watched the scene together. It felt so natural standing next to him, familiar somehow, as if she had been expecting this moment all her life. She took the opportunity to study his face. It wasn’t perfect, but in the flaws lay his perfection. His cheekbones were undeniably prominent, and his nose flawless. But his mouth was perhaps a little too full, his eyes too far apart. It was, she decided, the most wonderful face she had ever seen.
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