“But are genetics always so obvious? My sister and I are totally different.”
“Maybe a fox snuck into your family henhouse.”
Farnsworth snorted contemptuously. “Oh, really, Erin. You’re not seriously suggesting—”
“I’m just making a point. DNA is not destiny.”
“I still don’t see it.”
“Who, then? Who do you think could be Jeremy’s father?”
“It’s not necessarily anyone at this convention, you know.”
“Good point,” Erin said. “More likely than not, it isn’t anyone here.”
Farnsworth patted her arm. “Don’t look so depressed, pet. You still have a chance to catch your murderer—that is, if there is one. Your sexy detective seems to think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick.”
“The more he tries to dissuade me, the more convinced I become.”
“Mind how you go, pet. If there really is a murderer at large, I doubt they’ll stop at one victim if they feel threatened.”
Perhaps it was her friend’s warning, or maybe it was the storm gathering force outside, but a chill crept across Erin’s skin. She shivered as a gust of wind blew a fistful of snow smack against the windowpanes, knocking a long, glistening icicle loose from the roof. As she watched, it plummeted to the ground, shattering into a thousand tiny shards of frozen crystals.
Chapter Thirteen
Back in her room, Erin had the melancholy feeling that sometimes settled over her when she read sad poetry, or thought too long about her mother. But tonight it was the combination of the storm outside and the strange vacuum left by Peter Hemming’s departure. The room felt empty, too quiet, as if the air had collapsed in on itself. Outside, soft, fluffy flakes fluttered gracefully from the inky sky, illuminated by the lights outside her window. Her mother had so many ways of describing snow that Erin’s father used to joke she was part Inuit. Gwyneth Coleridge transferred her love of weather to her daughter. They had bonded over their fascination with snow, a fairly uncommon weather event in Oxfordshire.
Erin had a sudden yearning for poetry, something to match her mood. Grabbing her laptop, she lay on the bed and googled one of her favorites by her illustrious ancestor, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, “Frost at Midnight”. Settling back against the pillows, she read the first stanza.
The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet’s cry
Came loud—and hark, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings: save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
’Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness.
Gazing out, she saw frost crystals were indeed forming on her own window panes. More than ever before, she felt a deep connection to her august ancestor. What was writing, if not ongoing conversations across the membrane separating the dead from the living, and the living from unborn generations yet to come?
In the poem, he was a father keeping watch over his infant son, staying up late to write poetry while frost gathered outside his window. And here she was, linked to him by mysterious strands of DNA, and by their shared love of poetry, as she watched the frost etch patterns on her own windowpanes. She shivered again, only this time it was a pleasant tingling, an inexplicable sensation that she was not alone. She read on.
Sea, hill, and wood,
This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings-on of life,
Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet creature.
So often late at night, Erin felt like the sole unquiet creature—a natural night owl like her mother, she struggled with bedtime, sometimes staying awake deep into the night. She could remember lying in bed in her third-floor room with the gabled ceilings, watching as car headlights crossed her walls, wondering where the cars were coming from, and where they were headed.
Sea, hill, and wood. She loved his use of repetition, thrilling to the thought of Coleridge in his cottage in Nether Stowey, Somerset, where the poem was written. And here she was in Yorkshire, no sleeping babe at her side, but a murderer lurking nearby. Yet, there was a strange calm, engendered by the surrounding snow enveloping the city in its soft, seductive embrace.
She read on, caught by the breathless beauty of his language. She especially liked the last stanza—after meditating on what his son’s life will be like, he ends the poem by circling back to the beginning, with the image of frost on his windows.
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the night-thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.
Gazing out the window, she saw the outline of a misty moon, shrouded in snow, the pale-yellow disc, ghostly and dim in the thickening air. The secret ministry of frost … or murder, she thought. What could be more secretive than the taking of another life? Like the frost, this killer operated beneath the quiet moon …
Putting her computer aside, she contemplated the poem’s circular structure. She knew from her own writing that returning to the beginning was often a good way of ending a poem or story. But what was the origin of murder? Thought, word, deed—the deed has its beginning in thought, she reasoned, so if she could find her way to the moment the murder was first conceived, she would be that much closer to solving the crime. In order to do that, she needed a motive.
She leafed through the conference bulletin until she found the list of panelists and participants. So many people seemed to have a plausible reason to want Barry Wolf dead. The question was, which of them wanted it badly enough to actually kill him?
She lay on the bed with the bulletin, studying the list of participants. Grabbing a piece of hotel stationery, she made a list of people on the left side of the page, and across from each name, possible motives. Some people had more than one potential motive. She made a third column for circumstances that might be potential evidence. In some cases, she didn’t know enough about their relationship with Barry to make an apt deduction so she filled in a question mark under “Motive.”
Name
Motive
Potential evidence
Judith Eton
Money/Revenge
Shared son/divorce/argument in bar
Terrence Rogers
Revenge/Envy
Argument in hallway
Grant Apthorp
Past grievance?
Called Barry a “tosser”
Luca Wolf
Money
Did not seem to like Barry
Stephen Mahoney
Money, love?
Seems close to Luca
And so on. It was late when she finished, and she put the list aside, brushed her teeth, and fell into bed with the pale light of the misty moon shining through her windows.
Chapter Fourteen
Erin awoke to blinding sunlight streaming into the room, reflecting off the slanted ceiling. She had fallen asleep without drawing the curtains, and the storm had blown itself out during the night, giving way to cold, crisp air and brilliant sunshine. She rolled over and looked at the bedside clock; its glowing red numbers read 7:10 AM. Her first panel was at eleven, which gave her plenty of time. Pulling on her robe to shield her from the chill i
n the room, she put on the electric kettle, sat down at the desk, and opened her computer. Opening her browser, she typed in “Grant Apthorp”. Farnsworth had interrupted her background check on him yesterday, and she meant to finish her investigation of his past before moving on to the next potential suspect.
The first link was to Cardiff University, where, according to their website, he had been teaching literature and languages for fifteen years. His bio included numerous publications, which wasn’t surprising. Her father had told her of the publish-or-perish dictums at the more prestigious universities. Among the works listed was the one Jonathan had read, Art and Commerce: Literature and the Ascension of the Middle Class, as well as another entitled Alluring Lies: The False Promise of Romanticism. Erin wished she could get hold of student reviews of Grant as a professor, but that would involve starting an application to attend the school, and she didn’t have time for that. For now at least, she would have to content herself with a web search, where the most negative thing she could find was an unflattering photograph at a college cocktail party.
At eight thirty, there was a knock on the door.
“Hello, Farnsworth,” Erin called, getting up to open the door. She opened it to find Khari Butari, looking rested and bright-eyed in a linen pantsuit the color of fresh cream.
“Bonjour. I hope you’re not disappointed,” Khari said, smiling.
“Not at all. I just didn’t expect you.”
“I was wondering if you wanted to have brunch.”
“Sure—I don’t have a panel until eleven.”
“Jane Austen—Adaptations and Imitations?”
“Yes.”
“I’m the moderator.”
“Wonderful,” Erin said. “If you don’t mind waiting, I’ll be ready in a jiff.”
“Tell you what—why don’t we meet down there around nine?”
“Perfect. That will give me time to dress.”
“D’accord,” said Khari. “See you then.”
Erin was still in her pajamas, her hair uncombed, teeth unbrushed. She hated rushing in the morning, and would need time to get properly dressed. Normally, she bathed in the evening, but as she had fallen asleep without her bath, she thought she’d dip into the shower, knowing she’d feel better for it. Just as she was about to step into the shower, there was another knock on the door.
“Yes?” she called from the bathroom.
“It’s me.” It was Farnsworth called “I’ve come to fetch you for breakfast.”
Erin threw on a towel and went to the door, cracking it open. “It’s Sunday, so I think it’s brunch.”
Farnsworth was dressed all in black with a lemon-yellow scarf wrapped around her neck. “Whatever. Are you going to let me in?”
Erin opened the door. “I’m just about to jump in the shower.”
“I’ll come back in a half hour.”
“Uh—Farnsworth?”
“Yes?”
“I told Khari I’d eat with her.”
There was an ominous silence.
“Farnsworth?”
“What?” she said without making eye contact. Her tone was chilly.
“I thought you might be eating with Grant. I’m sure it’d be fine for you to join us.”
“It’s all right,” she said, turning to leave. “I’ll make other plans.”
“Farnsworth—” Erin said, but she could hear her friend’s footsteps retreating down the hall. “Damn,” she muttered, going back to the bathroom. Farnsworth was loyal and kind and generous, but she could be jealous and overly sensitive. This was just the kind of thing that might push her into a pout, Erin thought as she turned on the faucet, lifting her face to let the warm needles of water wash over her, cleansing and absolving her of her sins.
After her shower, Erin slipped on a forest-green dress over black tights, pulled on her favorite pair of knee-high boots, and ran a brush over her curly auburn hair.
Khari was already seated at a table near the windows when Erin appeared in the dining room.
“Hello,” she said, smiling when she saw Erin. Her teeth glistened, a smooth, perfect row of ivory. She was, Erin thought, a very beautiful woman.
“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting,” she said, sliding into a chair facing the window.
“Not at all. I got here just before you.”
Erin picked up the menu and squinted at it. The sun reflecting off the mounds of fallen snow hurt her eyes, so she moved her chair to the other side of the table.
“It’s really bright, isn’t it?” said Khari.
“The snow makes it worse. I’m not good with bright light.”
“You wouldn’t do well in Senegal,” Khari said. “Those blue eyes of yours.”
“I come from pale, northern people,” Erin agreed and they both laughed.
She looked up from the menu to see Luca Wolf and Stephen Mahoney enter the room. Their body language didn’t exactly proclaim they were a couple, but Luca seemed to derive comfort from his presence, leaning toward him ever so slightly as they waited to be seated. He bent down to say something to her, his lips close to her ear. As the hostess led them past Erin and Khari’s table, Luca smiled at them briefly, and Erin pounced on the opportunity.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said, rising from her chair.
“Thank you,” said Luca. Her Hungarian accent had the refined air of someone who came from money.
“Erin Coleridge, Northern Branch of the Society,” Erin said, extending her hand. “If there’s anything we can do, please let us know.”
“You are very kind,” she replied, shaking Erin’s hand. Luca’s hand was thin and papery, like a leaf, the skin cool and dry.
Stephen Mahoney stood quietly at her side, his eyes wandering over the room, as if he wished he were somewhere else.
“Would you care to join us?” said Erin.
“No, we really have to—” said Stephen, but Luca interrupted.
“That would be lovely, thank you.”
“This is Khari Butari,” Erin said as they sat down. “She makes fascinating documentaries.”
“You should be my agent,” Khari said with a wry smile. “Pleased to meet you,” she added, turning to Barry’s widow.
“I’m Luca—Wolf,” she said, hesitating before saying the last name. “And this is my, uh, my husband’s assistant, Stephen Mahoney.”
“How do you do?” he said, sliding into the chair next to Khari.
The next few minutes were spent studying the menu and ordering. When the waiter had gone, Erin turned to Luca.
“Are you going to stay at the conference?”
She shrugged. “We come all the way up from Oxford. The room is paid for, so we stay.”
“It’s what Barry would have wanted,” Stephen added hastily as the waiter brought them coffee. Sam was nowhere to be seen—he didn’t seem to be working the brunch shift. There was no sign of Farnsworth either—maybe she and Grant had gone out to brunch. Erin just hoped she wasn’t sitting in her room pouting.
“What about the funeral?” asked Khari.
Luca shrugged. “His family make arrangement for next week.”
“But aren’t you—”
“She means his brother and sister,” said Stephen.
“Were they close with him?” asked Erin.
The two exchanged a glance.
“I don’t really know,” said Luca. “They talk on phone, but I don’t see them very often.”
“His sister lives in Durham, and the brother owns a restaurant in London,” Stephen added.
“How long have you been working for—with him?” Erin asked, not wanting to suggest Stephen was subservient to Barry. The way he held himself suggested he was proud, and wouldn’t like being reminded he was Wolf’s employee.
Stephen exchanged a glance with Luca. “About two years.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
An involuntary look of revulsion passed over his face before he rearranged his expression into an unconvincin
g smile. “It was very interesting.”
“Do you have an academic background?” asked Khari.
Again the briefest of glances passed between him and Luca. “Hardly,” he said. “I—”
“Stephen is gifted artist,” Luca said, flicking a wisp of black hair from her forehead.
“A painter?” said Erin.
“Sculptor, mostly,” he replied. “But I don’t know how gifted I am—”
“Don’t be modest,” Luca said. “He’s really very good,” she told them proudly, her eyes shining. They were so dark they almost looked black, with the wintry light behind her.
“Have you had any shows?” asked Khari.
“Some, back home.”
“Where is that?” asked Erin.
At that moment Luca knocked over her coffee, the black liquid soaking into the white linen tablecloth. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed, jumping up from her chair. “I’ll fetch the waiter.”
“Really, it’s fine,” Erin said, but she was already scampering across the room.
“She’s always been clumsy,” Stephen remarked, “though you wouldn’t think so to look at her. Used to drive Barry crazy.”
It was clear from the look in his eyes that there was more to the relationship between Luca and Stephen than they were willing to reveal—at least for now. Sitting in the cold, bright December light, Erin wondered what she could do to entice the information out of them.
Chapter Fifteen
Later, while they were walking to their panel together, Erin and Khari stopped in front of the water station to fill two glasses with ice water. The air in the hotel was dry, and Erin knew from experience conference rooms could get stuffy, especially if they were crowded. Judging by the people lined up outside, this one would be pretty full. Their meeting room was Aldwark. All of the panel rooms were named for references to York, and Aldwark was one of the city’s main streets, as well as a picturesque village about fourteen miles away.
“I must apologize for asking Luca and Stephen to join us without consulting you,” she told Khari.
“That’s all right. What’s going on between them, anyway?”
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