Death and Sensibility

by Elizabeth Blake

  She looked up to see Hetty vigorously beckoning her to the dance floor. The musicians had returned from their break, and were gearing up for another set. Hetty and Prudence were prowling the crowd, collecting participants for the next dance as the band struck up a lively Irish tune Erin recognized as “The Haymaker’s Jig.”

  Hemming touched her arm lightly. “Your friend is summoning you. Looks like the jig is up.”

  Erin groaned. “That’s my cue to leave. Thanks for making it so easy for me.”

  “Any time,” he called after her as she bounded onto the dance floor, as if the combination of music, alcohol, and the lively crowd could relieve her of the heaviness she had felt ever since Barry Wolf’s death. She looked back at Hemming, who was scanning the crowd, apparently having forgotten about her.

  He hadn’t really, though. She knew it as well as she knew every inch of her beloved bookshop back home in Kirkbymoorside. She could feel an invisible force connecting them, as if she had always known him. What a cliché, she thought as she crossed to join the dancers, and yet she could not escape the feeling.

  By this time, everyone had been dancing long enough (combined with sufficient amounts of alcohol) that they were loose and relaxed. Hetty beckoned Erin to a spot next to Jonathan, whose cheeks were becomingly flushed, his eyes bright. Opposite them were Grant and Farnsworth—Hetty had no doubt placed the two couples together, not knowing Erin and Farnsworth were at odds at the moment.

  Grant bowed graciously to Erin, who curtseyed in return. Farnsworth and Jonathan did the same, and they began the lively steps Judith had taught them. Grant did well, minus the kicks and hops, but he was able to move around the room tolerably well with his cane—rather better than earlier in the evening, Erin thought. Farnsworth didn’t make any more snide comments, but Erin still sensed an aloofness in her friend’s attitude toward her. Still, she enjoyed the dance, and was sorry when it was over. Hetty swooped in and commandeered Jonathan’s attention, drawing him toward a group of women from the Southern Branch

  “I’ve got to spend a penny—be right back,” Farnsworth told Grant, and threaded her way through the crowd toward the exit.

  He turned to Erin. “How about a libation?”

  “Why not?”

  Grant escorted her to the punch bowl, where he poured them both generous servings.

  “I see the police are staking us out,” he said, handing her a glass. She was impressed at his dexterity, as he was wearing white dress gloves as he poured the punch.

  “Just keeping an eye on things,” she said, drinking deeply. It was even more delicious than before, and she refrained with difficulty from having a second glass. She looked around for Detective Hemming, but didn’t see him. Sergeant Jarral stood at the far side of the room, chatting amiably with a young blonde woman who seemed to have attached herself to him.

  “I hear you’re conducting your own investigation,” Grant said. “How’s that going?”

  “Oh, it’s—” she began, breaking off when she saw Terrence Rogers approaching them. She hadn’t noticed him during the last few dances, and wondered where he had been all this time.

  “Hello, Miss Coleridge,” he said.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, Terrence,” Grant said amiably.

  Rogers peered at him coldly. “Why don’t you just save everyone time and tell them what you’ve done?”

  Grant laughed, though it was somewhat strained. “Whatever do you mean, old boy?”

  “Oh, come off it. It’s no secret you couldn’t stand Barry Wolf.”

  “Neither could you. After all, he got you sacked from Oxford.”

  Terrence reddened. “I wasn’t ‘sacked.’”

  “‘Let go,’ then. A rose by any other name—”

  “Smells rank to heaven,” Rogers snapped back.

  “I appreciate your thinking me capable of such a clever crime,” Grant said. “But we may as well face it—no one liked Barry Wolf.”

  “But who had an actual motive to kill him?”

  “From what I hear, pretty much everyone. He didn’t win any popularity contests.”

  “But why Judith?” Terrence said, his eyes narrowing as he studied Apthorp. “Who was anxious to remove her from the picture?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Grant replied as Jeremy Wolf entered the room. He looked utterly gutted, his already pale face drawn and lined with grief. Dressed in normal street clothes, jeans and a black shirt, he wandered aimlessly through the crowd, which parted for him as if aware of his suffering.

  “Excuse me,” Terrence said to Erin. “I have to go,” he added, walking swiftly toward Jeremy.

  “Poor lad,” Grant said when Terrence had gone. “Do you believe the rumor?”

  She watched as Terrence approached Jeremy, putting his arm around the boy’s shoulders. To her surprise, Jeremy did not shrug him off, and even seemed to welcome the gesture. “Which rumor are you referring to?”

  “That Terrence Rogers is Jeremy’s real father.”

  “I haven’t heard that one,” she lied.

  “Yes, you have,” he replied smoothly. “You’ve been snooping around here all week.”

  This caught her off guard. Her head cloudy from the effects of the punch, she stammered a feeble reply. “I … wasn’t aware it was—”

  “Never mind,” he said with a little chuckle. “You don’t have to explain. Like a good detective, you’re withholding key information from the suspects.”

  “Are you a suspect?”

  “Isn’t everyone in this room? Or have you eliminated some people?”

  The way he said “eliminated” made her shiver. “What happened between you and Terrence Rogers?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You worked together on the literary magazine all those years ago. You thanked him in your first book, but not the second.”

  “Ah,” he said. “You are a good sleuth, aren’t you?”

  “What happened to your friendship?”

  “Let me show you something,” he said, taking her by the elbow, as the band struck up another mazurka.

  She followed him from the ballroom and into the little antechamber around the corner, where Charles had shown her the coffee urn. It was quiet and secluded; she could barely hear the music coming from the ballroom. An abandoned tray of plates and silverware sat in one corner.

  “What did you want to show me?” she said as he turned toward her.

  She realized too late she had made a terrible mistake. All the wry humor had evaporated from his face. His eyes were opaque, as if a membrane had been pulled over the pupils, transforming them into the black, lifeless eyes of a shark. She turned to flee, but a strong hand gripped her arm and spun her around, pulling her toward him. She opened her mouth to scream, but his hands were already around her throat, squeezing hard, cutting off her air. As he forced her to the ground, she flailed wildly at the tray of kitchenware, bringing it crashing down; she hoped someone would hear the sound and come to find out what had caused it.

  “Foolish girl,” he muttered as he pressed the breath from her body. “Did you really think you could bring me down? I could have finished you off on that bloody Ghost Walk, if it weren’t for your little friend showing up.”

  “Why … Sam?” she gasped, thinking she could perhaps stall him long enough for rescue to arrive—all the while realizing it was probably a vain hope.

  “Stupid busybody,” he muttered. “Nearly caught me in the act, then blabbered to everyone about the bloody salad after bumping into me.”

  “So … you—”

  “I had to be sure, didn’t I? Now just stop struggling, and this will go much easier,” he said, pressing down.

  She reached up to scratch his cheek—thinking she could at least embed his DNA under her nails—but forgot she was wearing gloves. Her last thought before blackness closed around her was that his own white gloves would leave no fingerprints when they found her body.

  Chapter Fifty-Tw
o

  Erin was brought back to consciousness by the sound of a woman screaming. Her first thought was that it might be the sound of her own voice, but when the attempt to breathe brought a violent fit of coughing, she realized she had no breath in her body to speak, let alone scream. Sucking in more air, she opened her eyes to see Farnsworth Appleby standing over her, bellowing like a bull elephant. Farnsworth emitted no words, just the throaty, primal sound of pure rage.

  Struggling to sit up, Erin looked around for Grant Apthorp, just in time to see him stagger and collapse against the far wall, clutching at his throat. A sturdy dinner fork protruded from his neck. His eyes found hers, the pupils widening in disbelief. He opened his mouth in an attempt to speak, but he emitted only a deathly gurgling sound. His hands clawed at the empty air as he slid down the side of the wall, landing in a crumpled heap. And then he was silent, a silence even more terrible than the sound of Farnsworth’s screaming, which had stopped. Panting heavily, her friend dropped to her knees beside Erin. Wrapping Erin in her arms, Farnsworth stroked her hair and murmured nonsense syllables, like a mother comforting a sick child.

  They remained like that for several moments. Still struggling to breathe without coughing, Erin realized the spray of liquid falling on her face was Farnsworth’s tears.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  “You sure you’re all right, pet?” Farnsworth said as the two of them sat huddled in the empty ballroom an hour later. They were both wrapped in blankets, which Hetty had insisted on bringing them—because, as she said, “Trauma makes the blood go cold.”

  “I’m fine,” Erin said, drawing the blanket closer around her shoulders. Hetty had a point, she thought—she couldn’t seem to stop shivering. She looked around the deserted ballroom, she and Farnsworth its only occupants. It had a sad, abandoned air, made more melancholy by the remnants of recent merrymaking. Sheets of bunting had come loose, hanging forlornly from the windows or strewn across the carpet. Flowers wilted in their vases; discarded cocktail napkins lay trampled on the floor, along with lost gloves, hatpins, and bits of dress lace.

  They had already given their statements to the police, and were awaiting a final interview before being officially released. Erin’s hand strayed to her throat, still sore and tender to the touch. The events of the past hour had such a patina of unreality that only the feel of her fingers upon her injured neck convinced her that it had happened at all. She coughed softly, not wanting to alarm Farnsworth, but her friend had the ears of a bat.

  “Sure you’re all right, pet?”

  “I’m fine. But what about you? You must be in shock.” In truth, Farnsworth’s behavior since rescuing her had been so stoic that Erin was worried, fearing a meltdown was imminent. “If it makes you feel any better, I was as fooled as you were. I just never thought—I mean, for you it must be … I can’t imagine.”

  Farnsworth shrugged. “Easy come, easy go.”

  Erin stared at her, too shocked to reply. She watched as Farnsworth’s breathing deepened and sobs shook her body. Her face crumpled as tears cascaded down her cheeks. Erin reached to put her arms around her, but Farnsworth shook her off. “I should have known,” she wailed. “It’s my fault!”

  “Rubbish,” said Erin. “He had us all taken in.”

  “Not me,” said a voice at the other end of the room. They turned to see Terrence Rogers, still clad in breeches and waistcoat. The cuffs of his white shirt were somewhat soiled, and his boots were scuffed, but otherwise he did not appear much the worse for wear. “I always thought he was a silly prat,” he added, sauntering toward them.

  “Terrence,” Farnsworth gasped through her sobs. “W—what are you doing here?”

  “Just thought I’d see how you were getting on.”

  “We’re just waiting for the police to let us go,” Erin said.

  Terrence smiled. “That tall blond fellow fancies you, you know.”

  “She knows,” Farnsworth said, drying her tears with a pile of cocktail napkins.

  “Why did he do it?” Erin said. “You knew both of them.”

  “There were always rumors Barry sabotaged Grant’s efforts to get tenure at Oxford. No one could ever prove it. If I had to guess, I’d say someone at the conference finally told him.”

  “Judith?”

  “Possibly. Maybe Barry himself—he always was a vindictive little prick.”

  “Remember that conversation we saw on the first night between them at the bar?” said Farnsworth.

  Erin nodded. “Whatever Barry said, Grant did not like it. We were too far away to hear what they were saying,” she told Terrence.

  Farnsworth sighed sadly. “He obviously killed Sam because he thought Sam was onto him, with the salad and everything. But what about poor Judith?”

  “She might have been onto him as well,” Erin said. “And he obviously faked the gout attack.”

  Farnsworth sighed. “I felt so sorry for him, when he actually was out stalking you. He nearly killed you—twice!” She looked as if she was about to cry again.

  “Can I get you anything?” Terrence asked.

  Farnsworth smiled hopefully. “A cup of tea would be nice.”

  “I’ll see if I can scare one up.”

  “Have they released Winnie yet?” said Erin.

  “Yes, we have.”

  Erin turned to see Peter Hemming enter the room.

  “She was released an hour ago,” he said, walking toward them. “I believe she’s in her room, if you want to see her.”

  “What about us?” said Farnsworth. “Are you finished with us?”

  “Just one or two more questions, if you’re up to it,” he said, glancing at Terrence.

  “I’ll just go see about that tea,” Terrence said, leaving the ballroom.

  “What did you want to know?” Farnsworth asked Hemming.

  He pulled up a chair across from them and sat. “How did you know Mr. Apthorp was, uh, attacking Ms. Coleridge?”

  “I was on my way back from the loo, and I heard a crashing noise.”

  “That would be the tray falling?”

  “Right. I went to see what was going on …” She paused and swallowed hard. “Well, you know the rest.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Appleby. And thank you … for your assistance.”

  “Saving Erin’s life, you mean?”

  He cleared his throat. “Yes.”

  “Any time,” Farnsworth said, winking at Erin. “Should I wait for you, pet?”

  “No, you go on ahead,” said Erin. “I’ll be up in a while.”

  “You were right in the end, pet,” said Farnsworth, standing up somewhat stiffly.

  “About what?”

  “Life isn’t like a Hallmark movie.”

  “Actually,” Erin said, with a glance at Hemming, “I’m not so sure about that.”

  Farnsworth smiled. “Good night, Detective.”

  “Good night, Ms. Appleby.”

  Left alone with Hemming, Erin looked down at her hands, surprised to see they were still trembling. The room was very quiet, and she could hear the faint ticking of the wall clock over the makeshift stage. The music seemed to still linger in the air, and yet it felt to her as if ages had passed since the ball. Time was like an accordion, compressed one moment, stretched out the next.

  “Your hands,” he said.

  “Yes,” she answered, gazing at his face, trying to memorize it in case she didn’t see him for some time.

  “Are you cold?”

  “No,” she lied. Then, gazing into his deep-blue eyes, the color of the North Sea on a cloudy day, something inside her melted and she no longer felt the need to hide anything from him—her vulnerability, weakness, even her deepest fears and desires. “Yes,” she said. “I’m cold.”

  Leaning forward, he wrapped her in his arms. “There,” he said after a moment. “Is that better?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “Much better.”

  Outside, she thought she heard an owl hooting softly, and she ga
ve a little laugh.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Just an owl,” she said. “Now then, where were we?”

  “I believe I was about to take you into custody. That is, if it’s all right with you.”

  “Will there be handcuffs?”

  “That depends on whether you come quietly or not.”

  “I can’t promise anything.”

  “So you might be bad?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “Very, very bad.”

  He laughed, and the dark cloud hanging over her cracked and shattered like glass, the pieces cascading to the floor in a dazzling kaleidoscope of possibilities.

  Also available by Elizabeth Blake

  JANE AUSTEN SOCIETY MYSTERIES

  Pride, Prejudice, and Poison

  Author Biography

  Elizabeth Blake has written ten published novels, six novellas and a dozen or so short stories and poems under other pseudonyms. Many of her works appear in translation internationally. Winner of both the Euphoria Poetry Competition and the Eve of St. Agnes Poetry Award, she is a two time Pushcart Poetry Prize nominee and First Prize winner of the Maxim Mazumdar Playwriting Competition, the Chronogram Literary Fiction Prize, Jerry Jazz Musician Short Fiction Award, and the Jean Paiva Memorial Fiction Award. She was a finalist in the McClaren, MSU and Henrico Playwriting Competitions. She is a Hawthornden Fellow and Writer in Residence at Bydcliffe, Lacawac and Karunā Colonies.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by Carole Bugge

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.