Death and Sensibility

by Elizabeth Blake

  Winnie smiled shyly. “Thank you, but—”

  “My mother used to knit. I have happy memories of sitting at her feet while she made sweaters and socks and hats—she even let me pick out the wool sometimes.

  “How lovely,” Winnie said. “Is she still with us?”

  “Sadly, no,” Jonathan said. Erin noticed he neglected to add how she died—at the hands of his father.

  Charles returned with Jonathan’s drink. “Ta very much,” Jonathan said, raising his glass. “Here’s to mothers who knit.”

  “And to the patron saint of virgins,” Charles added, with a wink at Winnie, who blushed and looked away.

  “Who would that be?” said Erin.

  “Saint Winifred,” Charles replied. “We’re in the presence of her namesake.”

  “Ah,” Jonathan said to Winnie. “You’re named after a saint?”

  “She was a martyred Welsh princess in the seventh century,” she explained.

  “Beheaded by her suitor when he found she intended to become a nun,” Charles added.

  “How gruesome,” said Erin.

  “Legend has it she came back to life,” said Charles. “And lived for some years afterward in a convent.”

  Erin googled “Winifred” on her phone. “It says here ‘A girl’s name of Welsh and Old English origin meaning holy, blessed reconciliation, or joy and peace.’”

  “I can see that,” said Jonathan. “I feel more peaceful already in your presence.”

  “Or maybe it’s the whiskey,” Erin suggested. “Malt does more than Milton can to justify God’s ways to man.”

  “I take my Milton neat, with a chaser,” Jonathan remarked.

  “Speaking of great poets,” Charles told Erin, “I brought the magazine for you to sign.”

  “I’ll be glad to. But I’m hardly in Milton’s company.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Charles said, fishing it out of his knapsack, which was leather, like much of his outfit.

  “Well done, you,” Jonathan told Erin. “I’ll have to get a copy.”

  “Here you are,” Charles said, handing her the magazine.

  “Negative Capability,” Winnie said. “That’s an unusual name for a magazine.”

  “It’s named after an idea first proposed by John Keats,” Erin said.

  “According to him,” said Charles, “it is ‘when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.’”

  “Well done,” said Erin. “You’ve committed it to memory.”

  Charles shrugged. “Keats admired Shakespeare, who he claimed possessed this quality, but I’m afraid he made fun of your august ancestor, who he felt was too dedicated to making a philosophical statement in his poetry.”

  “Too invested in the meaning of a poem, then?” said Winnie.

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “It’s human nature to want to wring meaning out of existence,” Erin said, signing the magazine. “And I don’t think Shakespeare was shy about philosophizing.” Not to be outdone, she added, “But as Rilke said, ‘Try to live in the mystery.’”

  Jonathan smiled. “Aren’t we the heady lot?”

  “Well, this is a literary convention,” Charles remarked drily.

  After signing the magazine, Erin volunteered to get the next round, but Jonathan insisted it was his turn. “So much for staying for one drink,” Erin whispered in his ear as he reached for her glass.

  “A man can change his mind, can’t he?” he replied with his charmingly lopsided smile.

  “I’ll give you a hand,” said Charles. “Too much for one fellow to carry.”

  “Cheers,” said Jonathan, and the two of them wove their way through an increasing crowd toward the bar.

  Erin turned to Winnie. “How do you know Judith?”

  “We were at school together.”

  “When she was Grant Apthorp’s research assistant?”

  “I knew her before that. We were first-year college roommates. She didn’t work for Grant until her third year at Oxford.”

  “Did they get along?”

  Winnie shrugged. “I suppose.” From the way she squirmed in her chair, Erin could tell she was hiding something.

  “Sounds like there’s more to the story.”

  Winnie gave a bitter little laugh, and Erin realized that, as far as Winnifred Hogsworthy was concerned, there was much, much more to the story.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “So what exactly did she say about their relationship?” said Farnsworth, looking around the dining room to make sure no one was listening.

  “She was obviously upset about something,” Erin said. The two friends were dining at The Rise. Farnsworth had tracked Erin down in the bar, and insisted on treating her to dinner to make up for her moody behavior earlier.

  “Grant and Judith had an affair, you think?”

  “Could be. Why aren’t you having dinner with him?” said Erin as Farnsworth poured them each a glass of Malbec.

  “He wanted an early night. Said he was knackered after a big day of panels.”

  “I hope his nose isn’t out of joint because we asked Judith to step in and do the keynote address.”

  “Especially if there was some hanky-panky between them in the past. Men have such delicate egos,” Farnsworth said, taking a sip of wine. “Hmm, not bad. Hey, what happened with Jonathan?”

  “He went to bed early.”

  Farnsworth shook her head. “No stamina.”

  “Men are the real weaker sex,” Erin agreed, taking a bite of frisée. “This lemon dressing is brilliant.”

  “So why did Winnifred think something was going on between Judith and Grant?”

  “Apparently, Judith became more remote, in spite of what Winnie claimed was a very close friendship. She seems to blame Grant for getting between them. When I pressed for more, she clammed up.”

  “I think she’s a bit stuck on Judith.”

  “She does follow her around like a puppy.”

  Farnsworth sighed as she poured another glass of wine. “It’s sad, really.”

  “It’s not necessarily sexual.”

  “Right. I’ve had that kind of crush on people, where it’s just admiration, kind of like being starstruck. Haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” Erin said as the waiter arrived with their entrées. “That looks wonderful,” she said as he placed the elegant gold-rimmed dinner plate in front of her. She inhaled the buttery aroma of trout almondine, basmati rice pilaf, and sautéed broccoli rabe.

  “You really love that fish dish,” Farnsworth remarked as the server delivered her entrée of roast pork belly, peas, and golden mashed potatoes.

  “Couldn’t resist—it’s so good. Is Sam not working today?” she asked the waiter, an amiable young fellow with a mass of freckles and closely cropped ginger hair.

  “He was supposed to be on shift, but they called me to say he hadn’t turned up.” His dialect was pure Ulster, with the upward cadence and curled consonants typical of Northern Ireland. He exuded a sweetness that seemed wholly unstudied, rather than being calculated to please patrons or garner larger tips.

  “Is Sam all right?” asked Farnsworth.

  “I hope so—it’s not like him at all,” he said, frowning. “He’s usually reliable, so he is.”

  “If you hear anything, would you mind letting us know?” said Erin.

  “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “Thank you so much,” said Farnsworth. When he had gone, she turned to Erin. “What do you suppose is going on?”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t like it.”

  Back in her room after dinner, Erin took out her mobile phone and pressed the first number on her Favorites list. Her father picked up after two rings.

  “Hello, Pumpkin. I was just about to call you. Are you staying out of trouble?”

  “Listen, I want to ask you—”

  “Any more news about that chap’s death?
Do the police think it was murder?”

  “That’s what I was calling about.”

  “And here I thought you just wanted to hear my voice.”

  “That too. I just—”

  “That you missed me, you know.”

  “I do. Listen, I need a favor.”

  “Nothing illicit, I hope.”

  “I just want you to do a little digging into someone who attended Oxford. Actually, a couple of people, if you don’t mind.”

  “When did they graduate?”

  “It would be about twenty years ago. Maybe more.”

  “Before my time, Pumpkin.”

  “I know. But if you could just ask around.” She opened the curtains wide and gazed out at the snowflakes fluttering in the pale glow of the hotel’s outdoor LED lamps. “Also, I’m interested in any information you can dig up about one of their professors.”

  “Which college?”

  “Trinity.”

  “I know a few people there.”

  “You know everyone.” It wasn’t that far from the truth. As vicar of the University Church of St. Mary the Virgin, the parish church of Oxford University, her father knew an astonishing number of people, some of them very influential and important.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “You might try the porters,” she said, kicking off her shoes and sprawling on the bed. “A lot of them have been there forever, and know everyone, see everything.”

  “I know the Trinity porter—I’ll try him first. Who am I snooping about?”

  “Two literature students, Judith Eton and Winnifred Hogsworthy.”

  “And the professor?”

  “His name is Grant Apthorp. He was there around the same time.”

  “Apthorp, you say? Sounds Welsh.”

  “It is.”

  “That name rings a bell. Let me see what I can do.”

  “You’re a darling,” she said, turning on the cable television, muting the sound. The screen flared into life, and Martin Shaw appeared onscreen. It seemed like he was in everything these days. Erin didn’t mind—she rather fancied him, with his tousled gray hair and soulful eyes.

  “Just to be clear, even if I didn’t help you, you’d still be snooping around, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “So you might as well help me,” she said, channel surfing. Idris Elba’s face appeared—it was a repeat episode of his popular crime show Luther. Like every other woman in the UK, she definitely fancied him.

  Her father sighed. “Why are you so intent on putting yourself in danger?”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to me,” she said, watching Idris Elba run down a dark alley, long legs flashing in the headlights of a car in pursuit.

  There was a long pause, and then he said, “Is this about your mother?”

  “Don’t be daft,” she said, but as soon as he said it, she knew he was right. Forced to watch helplessly as her mother died of cancer, solving murders gave her an illusion of control. She knew it was just an illusion, but also knew it was better than the alternative. “I’ve got an early morning,” she said. “’Night, dad. And thanks.”

  “I’ll call you when I have anything.”

  “Love you heaps,” she said, and rang off.

  Onscreen, Idris Elba was fighting the forces of evil in the dirty streets of London; outside, snow swirled in the night, and inside the hotel, who knew what forces were at work? She pulled the blankets up to her chin and stared out the window at the snowflakes doing their crazy, doomed dance in the gathering darkness.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “The thing about creativity,” said Barry Wolf, “is that it can’t be learned. No matter how desperately it’s sought, it can’t be taught, and it can’t be bought.”

  “Nice assonance,” Farnsworth muttered, chewing on a handful of popcorn.

  She and Erin were lounging in Farnsworth’s hotel suite the next day, watching Barry Wolf’s YouTube TED Talk on the hotel’s enormous flat-screen television. Their morning panels completed, Farnsworth had made popcorn for the occasion, insisting they drink the fancy little bottles of sassafras soda from her mini fridge. When Erin protested the outrageous cost, Farnsworth dismissed it with a wave of her hand.

  “Who knows how much longer I’ll live? I say enjoy life while we can!”

  Erin frowned. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  Her friend insisted there was nothing wrong with her—she was just being dramatic, as usual, so Erin agreed to drink the overpriced soda.

  Now, watching Barry Wolf on the screen, Erin felt a shiver slide down her spine. It was odd watching someone deceased but so recently alive—stranger somehow than seeing an old movie with long-dead actors. She felt as if Barry’s aura hadn’t yet dissipated in this world—he seemed to hover over the conference, his presence still palpable, in the ghostly manner of those so recently dead. And here she was watching his digital imprint on a fifty-two-inch flat-screen television, eating popcorn and drinking expensive soda. It felt disrespectful, irreverent. It felt ghoulish.

  “Only you can contact your own creative impulses,” Barry said. Onscreen, he seemed more attractive—alone on the TED stage, it wasn’t so obvious how short he was. Clad in gray pants and a fitted black shirt, he looked thinner, and not so desperate to hide his age. “You can’t pay someone to do it for you, coax it out of you, or imbue you with imagination if you have none,” he continued. “It doesn’t work that way.”

  Farnsworth crunched on a hard kernel of popcorn. “Ow,” she said. “Think I might have broken a tooth.”

  “Should we pause the film? I need to hear what he’s saying.”

  Farnsworth sighed. “I’m all right. Carry on.”

  Turning to a group of women in the audience, Wolf smiled, and Erin saw the same condescension she had noticed when he was alive. “The problem is that the world is full of people who think they’re creative, but they’re not. And so they muck it up for the rest of us.”

  “That’s rather harsh,” said Erin.

  “Now that everyone can self-publish, and post videos of themselves on YouTube, the world is becoming increasingly full of junk,” Wolf said. “Because that’s what a lot of it is—junk.”

  “That’s true,” Farnsworth murmured.

  “In the days when Jane Austen was writing, you couldn’t just throw your half-assed ‘book’ up on Amazon,” he went on, his fingers making air quotes around the word “book.” “In those days, there were gatekeepers, people whose job it was to ensure a bunch of half-baked manuscripts didn’t pollute the shelves of bookstores. Because in those days, space was finite, books took up room in the shop, and quality mattered. Nowadays it’s all digitalized, and it costs almost nothing to stick something you ‘wrote’”—more air quotes—“online, and call it writing. But a lot of it isn’t writing—it’s self-indulgent spewing. And there’s no one left to stop it anymore.”

  A hand shot up in the audience.

  “Yes?” said Barry Wolf, licking his lips, perhaps hoping to chew on an unsuspecting grad student.

  “How can we tell if we’re creative or not?” The young man was thin, with slicked-down black hair and pale skin. Erin realized he was none other than Barry’s assistant, Stephen Mahoney. Could he be a plant in the audience, she wondered, carefully instructed to pose the right question at the right time?

  “For starters, don’t take your word for it,” said Wolf. “Seek advice, counsel—seek criticism from someone who isn’t afraid to tell you the truth.”

  “So not your mum, then?” said Stephen, and everyone in the audience laughed.

  “Certainly not.”

  “What if she’s a famous author herself, for example?”

  “Especially not then. She’ll either want your success too badly or envy your talent. Either way, you won’t get a straight answer.”

  There was a murmur among the crowd, a nodding of heads, and Erin realized that every
single person in the room considered themselves “creative”—whatever that meant.

  “Isn’t that young Stephen?” Farnsworth said, pausing the video.

  “Yep,” said Erin.

  “I wonder if he was already working for Barry then.”

  “There’s one way to find out.”

  Farnsworth gave a naughty smile. “Can I join you?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  Farnsworth scraped the last few kernels of popcorn from the bowl. “Look at all the old maids,” she lamented. “Just like me.”

  “You are not a maid, and you are certainly not old.”

  “No one wants me. I’m like the hard, unpopped kernels rattling around the bottom of the bowl.”

  “Oh, put a sock in it,” Erin said, and then saw Farnsworth was grinning broadly.

  “It doesn’t take much to get you going.”

  Erin tossed a napkin at her. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Ten minutes later they were sitting in the bar, sipping tall glasses of fruit juice.

  “We could just find his room number and knock on his door,” Farnsworth suggested after a few minutes.

  “I don’t want his guard up. It’s better if he thinks it’s just a casual conversation.”

  Farnsworth took a sip of pineapple/mango juice. “What makes you think he’ll turn up here?”

  “Remember last night?”

  “You mean when he was so sloshed?”

  “That’s not the behavior of someone with a casual relationship to alcohol.”

  “You think he’s a boozer?”

  Erin traced the lip of her glass with her finger. “Let’s just say I expect Mr. Mahoney is no stranger to wicked hangovers.”

  “So you expect him to turn up—”

  “Right about now,” Erin said, just as Stephen Mahoney wandered into the room, looking around tentatively. “Don’t stare,” she cautioned Farnsworth. “Pretend we’re not interested in him.”

  “I’m not a very good actress,” Farnsworth said, picking up the cocktail menu. “I’ll just keep my eyes glued to this.”

  Leaning against the bar waiting for the bartender, Stephen spotted the two women and waved. Erin waved back, and pointed to the empty seat beside her. Minutes later, Stephen sauntered over to them holding a glass of what appeared to be whiskey.