Death and Sensibility

by Elizabeth Blake

  “What now?” said Farnsworth.

  “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  “Why do you get to have all the fun?”

  “Because I have to be able to hide quickly if Detective Hemming comes out of the building. I can’t let him see me.”

  “And you think I can’t move fast enough?”

  “Can you?”

  Farnsworth sighed. Afraid she was in for another pout, Erin laid a hand on her arm. “It’s just that two people are harder to hide than one.”

  “Right,” Farnsworth said unconvincingly. “Go on, then.”

  “Look, if you really want to—”

  “Get along—it’s getting cold in here. Hurry up.”

  “Will you be all right?”

  “I’ll be fine—get on with you.”

  Erin climbed out of the little car and walked rapidly back toward Townsend Street. The wind whipped at her ankles as she stood at the intersection, watching the line of vehicles parked in front of the building. As she watched, one of the police cars pulled away slowly, lights silently flashing. After a couple of minutes, seeing no one enter or leave the building, she pulled her cap down over her eyes and started across the street. The back of the ambulance was open, and she could make out two figures standing just outside it. One of them was smoking. She recognized the two EMT workers she had met at the hotel – the tall, stern Jamaican woman and the friendly, chain-smoking Cockney. She strained to remember their names. He was Henry, but the woman had a more unusual name. Shanelle? Shanade? She couldn’t quite bring it up.

  “I dunno,” Henry was saying. “What about the petechiae? Don’ get that from hangin’, do ye?”

  Erin stopped where she was. It was a dark, moonless night, and they hadn’t seen her yet. She took a few steps to the right, stopping next to a tree, so the ambulance was between her and their line of sight. Standing very still, she held her breath and listened.

  “So?” said the woman.

  “An’ the chap from the medical examiner’s office said ’is face was th’ wrong color—sorta purplish.”

  “I see what you mean. In a hanging you would expect it to be pale.”

  “What d’ye think it means?”

  The woman said something Erin couldn’t quite make out. Taking a deep breath, she crossed the street and approached them, trying to look casual. “Hiya,” she said. “What’s going on here?” Glancing at the woman’s uniform, Erin remembered now—her name was Shanise.

  Henry’s face brightened when he saw her, but Shanise looked less enthusiastic.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come to meet my friend Sam. Sam Buchanan,” she said, looking for their reaction. Henry glanced guiltily at Shanise, who stared at Erin impassively.

  “You can’t see him right now.”

  “Why not? What’s happened?”

  “He’s—” Henry began, but Shanise silenced him with a look.

  “You can’t go in there,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a crime scene,” Henry blurted out.

  “Oh my God,” Erin said, doing her best to look shocked and surprised. Truthfully, she was distressed, but not exactly surprised. “What happened? Is Sam all right?”

  The fact that there was an ambulance with two very unhurried paramedics standing next to it told her everything she needed to know.

  Sam Buchanan was dead.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The door of the house opened and a familiar figure emerged. Erin recognized the tall, athletic form of Sergeant Rashid Jarral, Detective Hemming’s cheerful, easygoing partner. The building’s porchlight glinted off his shiny black hair as he paused on the stoop for a moment before descending the steps and striding toward them. Erin turned to flee, but Jarral called out to her.

  “Miss Coleridge!”

  She froze in place. It was too late—the jig was up.

  The two medics stared at Erin. “You know him?” said Henry.

  “Sort of,” Erin answered as Jarral approached, a friendly smile on his handsome face. The opposite of the moody, intense Hemming, Sergeant Jarral was open, good-natured, and trusting. And now that he was here, Erin hoped she could use that to her advantage.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” Jarral said, shaking her hand heartily and nodding at the two medics.

  “Hello again, Sergeant,” said Henry. Shanise gave him a curt nod. Erin wondered if she liked anybody.

  “What brings you down to York?” Jarral asked Erin.

  “I’m here for a conference. And Sam Buchanan is a friend of mine.” Not exactly a lie, but not exactly the truth either.

  “Oh,” he said. “I’m so sorry.” She could see the wheels turning in his head as he processed her response. “How did you—I mean, why are you here, exactly?”

  “I just popped round to see him,” she lied. “And then I saw all this,” she added, pointing to the lineup of police vehicles.

  “So you—I mean, what did they tell you?” he asked, indicating Shanise and Henry.

  “Nothing, but it’s pretty clear Sam is dead. Isn’t he?” she added, swallowing hard, hoping she was wrong.

  Jarral looked at the two medics. Shanise shrugged, and Henry looked away.

  Erin shook her head sorrowfully.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t really say anything at this time,” Jarral said.

  “How did he die?” Erin said.

  “Listen, I have to go back in. I wish I could tell you more, but we haven’t even notified the family.”

  “Of course,” she said. “And do me a favor, would you? Don’t tell Detective Hemming you saw me.”

  Jarral frowned. “He doesn’t know you’re here?”

  “No, and it would upset him. You know how he is.”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Right,” he said, and turned to go. “Stay out of trouble!” he called over his shoulder as he loped toward the house.

  Right, Erin thought. Fat chance of that.

  “About bloody time,” Farnsworth said when Erin climbed back into the driver’s seat a few minutes later. “It’s bloody cold out here.”

  “Language, Miss Appleby. What would Mr. Apthorp think?”

  “Sod him,” Farnsworth said, rubbing her hands together rapidly while breathing on them. Her breath hung white in the frosty air, and Erin felt a little guilty. She resolved to buy her friend a nice Indian meal. “So? What did you find out?”

  “I’m afraid it’s not good news.”

  “What? Tell me, please,” Farnsworth said, an edge of panic in her voice.

  “He died by hanging. At first glance it looked like suicide.”

  “What? Why would Sam kill himself?”

  “A better question is who would kill Sam and make it look like a suicide?” Erin told Farnsworth about the petechial hemorrhaging and the purplish color of his face.

  Farnsworth rubbed her hands and blew on them. “Petechial hemor—”

  “Little broken blood vessels in the eyes.”

  “Which isn’t common in hanging?”

  “But you would expect to see in strangulation.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “So who wanted Sam dead?”

  Farnsworth was silent for a moment.

  “Could it be a coincidence?”

  Erin nodded. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “There will be an autopsy?”

  “I’m sure there will.”

  “When?”

  “I expect when the CSI team finishes processing the scene they’ll remove the body to the morgue. I don’t know how long that would take—it depends on how backed up they are, how much of a rush there is on it, that kind of thing.”

  Farnsworth shook her head sorrowfully. “Poor Sam. He was such a good fellow.”

  “He definitely took a shine to you,” Erin said, starting the engine. “Are you up for a meal at the Coconut Lagoon, or are you too upset?”

&n
bsp; “Well, I’m very upset, but I’m also starving.”

  “That’s what I thought you’d say,” Erin said, driving out of the carpark and back onto the street.

  “Why? Do you think I’m shallow?”

  “Not at all—just practical,” Erin said as they drove past the crime scene. The vehicles had not moved, and she could see Henry and Shanise lounging in the back of the ambulance. Henry was smoking, the glow from his cigarette like a single orange eye of a predator in the night. Tiger, Tiger, burning bright, in the forests of the night. William Blake’s famous poem popped into Erin’s head as she turned left on Gillygate Road, back in the direction they had come.

  “After all, one does have to eat,” Farnsworth said plaintively.

  “Right,” Erin said as they approached the Coconut Lagoon. The purple and pink neon lights beckoned, promising comfort and solace. Swinging the car round to park in front of the restaurant, Erin felt her shoulders relax. For the next hour or so, she resolved, she would take her mind off murder and enjoy a nice meal with her best friend. The problem was, she wasn’t sure it was possible. Taking a deep breath, she unbuckled her safety belt—impossible or not, at least she would do her best to try.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “That korma was gorgeous,” Farnsworth said as they drove back to the hotel an hour later.

  “The biryani was brilliant as well.”

  “Yes, but the korma! It was like what I imagine food in heaven would taste like. So rich and creamy, with just the right amount of cardamom.” And then she burst into tears. “Poor Sam,” she moaned. “He didn’t deserve to die.”

  “No,” Erin said. “But maybe we can help bring his killer to justice.”

  She sighed deeply as they drove past York Minster, its jagged spires jabbing at the sky, as if trying to poke through to heaven. Beams of klieg lights shot upward from the cathedral below, disappearing into the cloud cover. The night was quiet; the snow lay all around them, dampening the sounds of the ancient city.

  Back at the hotel, Clyde was still on valet duty, and Farnsworth slipped him another fiver as Erin handed him the car keys.

  “Ta, ladies—have a pleasant night,” he said, tipping his cap.

  “You too, pet,” said Farnsworth, climbing the front steps a little unsteadily. Since she was driving, Erin had refrained from having anything from the wide selection of Indian beers at the Coconut Lagoon, but Farnsworth, being under no such restriction, had sampled several. “Well,” she said when they reached the lobby, “I think I’ll turn in. Thanks for the lovely dinner.”

  “I hope it made up for making you sit in the cold car.”

  “I’d sit in a cold car all night for a dinner like that.”

  “Good night. Sweet dreams.”

  “I plan to dream about that korma all night,” Farnsworth said, giving her a peck on the cheek before heading toward the lifts. “Otherwise I’m afraid I’ll dream about murder.”

  It wasn’t very late, and Erin didn’t feel like retiring just yet. She stood gazing at the elaborately tiled floor, with its circular blue and rose design, bordered on every side by elegant arches, reminiscent of Islamic palaces. Erin smiled absently at Harriet, the sweet, middle-aged desk clerk with the heavily powdered face, before wandering in the direction of the 1906 Bar. She was glad to see Khari Butari seated in the back, near the fireplace. Spotting her, Khari waved her over.

  “Nice spot,” Erin said, sliding into the burgundy leather armchair.

  “It’s only a gas fire,” Khari said, “but it’s good enough for me. Even after living here all these years, I’m still fascinated by fireplaces.”

  “Because it was too hot in Senegal to have them?”

  “They weren’t very common. I feel the same way about snow,” she said, looking out the window. “It still seems amazing to me.”

  “We don’t usually get this much, even in the north of England.”

  “Would you like a drink?”

  “What are you having?”

  “A Singapore sling. Spike makes it really well.”

  Erin looked up to see him vigorously shaking a martini in a silver flask, the edge of the cobweb tattoo peeking out from the sleeve of his shirt on his muscular arm. Wondering who would be drinking a martini, she looked around the bar and spotted Judith Eton and Terrence Rogers in a secluded corner, deep in conversation. She hadn’t noticed them when she first entered.

  “How long have Terrence and Judith been here?” she asked Khari.

  “I’m not really sure. I didn’t see them until you pointed them out just now. So what can I get you?”

  “Let me get this round, and you can get the next one.”

  “Really, I’d be glad—”

  “Please.”

  “All right.”

  “The same?”

  “As Spike would say, you can’t walk on one leg.”

  “Sounds like you’ve become very friendly with him.”

  Khari laughed. “He’s a flirt.”

  “Or maybe he fancies you. Be right back,” she said, heading toward the bar. Terrence and Judith took no notice of her, being engrossed in their own conversation.

  Spike grinned when he saw her. “Hello, luv. What can I do ye for?”

  “Two more Singapore slings, please.”

  “Right you are,” Spike said. Grabbing several bottles from the colorful rack of liquors lined up behind him, he went to work pouring and mixing them into a beaker, tossing in ice cubes and bits of fruit.

  Leaning on the bar, Erin tried to hear what Judith and Terrence were saying, without appearing to. She avoided looking in their direction, but strained to eavesdrop on their conversation. They were seated fairly close by, so she could make out some of what they were saying, but they were obviously trying to keep their voices low. Their tone was urgent, intimate, querulous.

  “How do I know you aren’t making this up?” Terrence said, leaning forward.

  Judith snorted. “Oh, come on! Surely you suspected by now.”

  “No, I didn’t!”

  Then Judith said something Erin couldn’t quite make out, and Spike presented her with two tall, festively decorated glasses filled with a pale pink liquid.

  “That’s gorgeous,” she said, picking them up.

  “Shall I put it on your room?”

  “Uh, yes—it’s room number—”

  “I know the number, luv,” he said, making a note on the bill.

  “Add a few quid for yourself.”

  “Right. Coupla hundred, then?”

  She laughed. “Will a fiver be enough?”

  “Ta very much,” he said, tapping his forehead with his forefinger in a salute.

  “Mind if I ask you a question about Sam?”

  “Wha’s that, then?”

  “I was just wondering whether he has any enemies you know of.”

  Spike snorted. “Sam? Not bloody likely. He’s so good-natured sometimes I wonder if he’s livin’ in the same world as me. Doesn’t see the bad side of people.”

  “Does he seem worried about anything?”

  “Not really.” He peered at Erin. “Do ye know where he’s got off to?”

  “No. I was just curious.”

  Spike cocked his massive head to one side and raised an eyebrow, as if he didn’t believe her. Erin felt a pang at lying to him, but it would be a betrayal of her promise to Sergeant Jarral not to say anything.

  “Thanks again,” she said, taking the drinks. Walking as slowly as she could, trying to catch another snippet of conversation, Erin headed back toward her table. As she passed a few yards from Judith and Terrence, she heard her say, “Don’t be so daft, for God’s sake!”

  She couldn’t make out his reply, and had no choice but to continue on to join Khari by the fireplace.

  “Ta,” Khari said as Erin handed her the drink. “You seemed very interested in our neighbors over there.”

  “Was is that obvious?”

  “Not to them—they hardly seemed aware
of you at all.”

  “This really is good,” Erin said, sipping her drink.

  “So what were they talking about?”

  “I’m not sure.” She related what she had heard to Khari, who shook her head.

  “You’re right—it could be anything. But sounds like she was telling him something he didn’t believe.”

  “Or didn’t want to,” Erin added.

  They looked over to see Terrence rise from his chair, looking shaken. He walked toward the exit as if in a daze, while Judith watched, arms crossed. Whatever she had told him, Erin thought, it was not welcome news. Not she just had to find out what it was.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Erin slept restlessly, tossing and turning half the night. Finally she took a Benadryl and settled into a deep REM state, dreaming about chasing an ambulance down an endless series of dark alleys, first in her car, and finally on foot. Strangely, she was able to keep up with the vehicle, even on foot, but was always a few steps behind. As it swerved around a tight corner, the back doors suddenly swung open and Peter Hemming came lurching out, blood gushing from his head, and fell into her arms.

  She awoke abruptly, a scream caught in her throat, to find her mobile phone ringing. She grabbed it from the bedside table and looked at the screen. It was her father.

  “Bit early, isn’t it?” she said, pressing the phone to her ear.

  “Is it?”

  “It’s seven AM.”

  “Did I wake you?”

  “No,” she said, stifling a yawn. She didn’t want him to think she was what he called a “layabed.” A natural early riser, her father considered anyone who slept until after eight to be a “lazybones.” Her mother had loved staying up late, and her father made an exception for her, but Erin received no such dispensation, being expected to adhere to her father’s idea of virtue, which included early rising.