“Aren’t you going on the Ghost Walk?” said a voice behind them. Erin turned to see Khari Butari, clad in a stunning gold tunic and matching trousers.
“Well, don’t you look gorgeous,” Erin said.
“Nice boubou,” said Hetty, sauntering up behind them.
“How do you know what it’s called?” Farnsworth asked.
Hetty shrugged. “Fashion, darling. It’s kind of my thing. A boubou is a traditional Senegalese garment, typically worn as a three-piece ensemble, often topped off with a hat.”
“I’m not wearing the ‘full and complete’ version,” said Khari, pouring herself a cup of tea. “That would be more proper.”
“It suits you just as is, dearie,” said Hetty.
“Yes,” Prudence agreed. “One man’s style must not be the rule of another’s.”
“Are you going to stay for the rest of the class?” Erin asked Khari.
“I thought I might.”
“It might be hard to keep up,” Farnsworth said. “You missed the whole first half.”
“I’ve actually done this before,” Khari said, spooning sugar into her tea.
Farnsworth frowned. “Really? Where?”
“Down in—” Khari began, but their attention was interrupted by the sound of raised voices near the doorway.
Jeremy Wolf and his mother were engaged in what looked like a rather intense discussion. Judith was doing her best to keep her voice down, but Jeremy’s volume rose as he argued with his mother.
“Then don’t!” he said. “I don’t care anymore!”
Judith glanced at the other people in the room beginning to take notice, and grabbed her son’s arm, dragging him out into the hall. To Erin’s surprise, he submitted—even thin as he was, the young man could have easily overpowered his mother. He flicked his lank blond hair off his face with his free left hand. The door closed behind them, and there was a pause as everyone struggled to contain their curiosity.
“What was that all about?” said Prudence, coming to stand beside Hetty. Erin always had the impression she was accompanied by a trail of dust, like the Peanuts cartoon character Pig-Pen.
“Family stuff,” said Farnsworth.
“After all, his father just died,” Erin said, looking around the room. Her gaze stopped at Terrence Rogers. Frozen in place, still as a pointer on the trail of a grouse, he stared at the door. Then, snapping out of it, he turned away, absently brushing a lock of hair from his forehead with his left hand.
The gesture was unmistakable, an exact replica of Jeremy’s, including the left-handedness. The truth hit Erin with the force of a thunderclap: Terrence Rogers was Jeremy Wolf’s father.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Judith soon returned to finish the class, which she did with remarkable sangfroid. She made no reference to Jeremy’s appearance. By the end she had them frolicking about the room like eager children. Erin had to admire her poise; she seemed unfazed by her son’s interruption. She now had a pretty good idea of what Judith and Terrence had argued about that night in the bar; the real question was whether Jeremy knew or not. She couldn’t wait to tell Farnsworth her theory.
When the class was over, Hetty and Prudence headed for a quick visit to the spa. Erin thought it was sweet Hetty had convinced her friend to join her obsession—Prudence Pettibone was the last person she would have expected to find enjoying the luxuries of a high-end spa. Erin queued up with Farnsworth for another beverage—the room had heated up considerably during the class, and she felt quite parched.
“Are you going on the Ghost Walk?” Khari asked, joining them.
“Oh, is that tonight?” asked Farnsworth.
Erin had also forgotten—Sam’s death weighed heavily on her mind, and she had neglected to check the daily conference schedule.
“Seven o’clock sharp in the Shambles,” Khari said, holding up a flyer depicting a tall man in nineteenth-century dress, complete with long black cape and top hat.
“Fancy a Ghost Walk?” Erin asked Farnsworth. “It’s only five pounds.”
“I’m not so good walking long distances. And there’s my injured ankle.”
“It’s only an hour long,” said Khari.
“We’d be back in time for dinner,” Erin said.
“You kids go ahead. I think I’ll spend an evening with my feet up in front of some truly trashy television.”
“Another Hallmark movie?” said Erin.
Farnsworth smiled. “Christmas comes but once a year.”
“Farnsworth is a fan of Twee TV,” Erin told Khari.
“I prefer to think of myself as a student of popular culture,” Farnsworth remarked.
“Meet in the lobby in half an hour?” Erin asked Khari.
“Perfect.”
Erin thought that would give her time to check in with her father. Leaving the ballroom, she took the back route to the stairwell, thinking she might walk instead of taking the lift. As she rounded the corner leading past the small antechamber Charles had shown her, she thought she would stop and see if there was any coffee left in the samovar. Stepping inside, she saw the urn had been taken away—not surprising, at this hour, she thought—and turned to leave.
She heard low voices speaking a foreign language coming from the other side of a door on one side of the antechamber. The door was unmarked, but she supposed it led to an office or lounge of some kind. Intrigued, she crept nearer to listen. It was a man and a woman, speaking quietly but urgently in what sounded like an Eastern European tongue. Definitely not Polish, she thought, and not Czech either. Maybe Scandinavian? She took a step closer.
Then she recognized the voices—it was Luca and Stephen, and she realized that of course they were speaking Hungarian. Although she couldn’t understand a word of what they were saying, she remained where she was, mesmerized by the urgency in their tone. Suddenly, without any warning, she felt a sneeze well up in her nose. There was no stopping it—she clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle it, but it exploded in a loud “Ah-phew!”
The voices stopped, and for a dreadful moment there was silence. Then the door opened and Stephen appeared, a frown on his narrow face. Seeing Erin, his expression darkened and his muscles tensed. For a moment, she feared him, unsure what he might be capable of. But then Luca appeared at his side, and he drew a deep breath, his body relaxing.
Erin had to admit they were a handsome couple—and an idea popped into her head. “Hello,” she said cheerfully. “I’m taking a few pictures of the conference. Mind if I take yours?”
Stephen glanced at Luca, who shrugged.
“You’re both so photogenic,” Erin continued. “Not everyone at the conference is so good looking,” she added with a conspiratorial smile. She hoped they would buy it; she was appealing to their vanity, and it was a way out of an awkward situation for all of them.
“Okay,” said Luca, looking at Stephen. “Why not?”
“All right,” he said.
“Just look natural,” said Erin. “You don’t have to smile if you don’t want to.”
“It’s okay,” said Luca. “We smile if you like.”
Putting her arm around Stephen, she gave a dazzling grin. Some people didn’t look as good when they smiled, but Luca looked even prettier, if possible. Stephen’s smile was less convincing, but he held it long enough for Erin to take several shots with her mobile phone.
“Now a shot of each of you separately,” she said, and they complied. “Thank you so much,” she said, pocketing the phone. “That will look fantastic in the brochure.”
“Who will see this brochure?” asked Stephen.
“Only people who are at the conference—you know, other Austen Society members.”
“Is okay,” Luca said, squeezing his arm, and Erin decided to find out what he had to hide.
“Thanks very much—be seeing you,” she said breezily, scooting away before they had a chance to protest. By the time she had been to her room to change back into her hiking boots, it was nearly
six thirty. Her phone call to her father would have to wait—But when she did call, she would she would have a lot to tell him.
“Sorry,” Erin said when she saw Khari standing near the elegant wrought iron staircase in the lobby. “I lost track of time.”
“No worries—we can make it if we walk quickly. Or we can take a cab.”
“I’m game to walk,” said Erin, glad Farnsworth wasn’t there after all. She would slow them down, and probably complain the whole way. She felt guilty for thinking it, even though it was true.
She and Khari bounded out the door and into the cold, crisp night. They headed toward the Mickelgate Bridge, past the Sainsbury’s and the little Italian café right on the water’s edge. The River Ouse flowed beneath them, dark and foreboding, illuminated only faintly by streetlamps and the lights of restaurants sprinkled along its shores. The moon had not yet risen; only a few stars were visible high in the night sky.
Erin was glad of her thick-soled boots as they crossed the bridge, her feet crunching with every step on the crust of hard-packed snow. The air was colder on the bridge, the wind whipping their ankles as they hurried across. Erin pulled up her parka hood and tightened the jacket’s drawstrings, thinking how Farnsworth would have hated this. Hit by a wave of fatigue, she suddenly wished she were back in her friend’s cozy hotel suite, sharing a bowl of popcorn and watching cheesy movies. Shoving her hands deeper into her pockets, she put her head down and followed Khari’s long strides, noticing they were the only people foolish enough to venture out over the bridge on such a night. At least it wasn’t snowing, she thought as they continued onto Low Ousegate. The street narrowed considerably as its name changed to High Ousegate, and just for a moment, Erin had the feeling they were being followed. She turned to look behind them, seeing nothing except a young couple a few yards back. They seemed engaged with one another, oblivious to Erin and Khari. Erin chided herself for being so on edge, and took deep breaths of frigid air to calm herself.
“Interesting name for a river, Ouse,” said Khari as they crossed onto Pavement Street.
“I think it’s a Celtic word meaning ‘water’ or ‘slow flowing river.’”
“That’s pretty descriptive of it,” Khari said as they approached the winding cobblestones of the Shambles. There were more sightseers in the streets now; half a dozen carolers huddled together singing “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.” “Hey, since you’re good at these things, what about the Shambles? Is it called that because it’s so higgelty-piggelty?”
“Actually, it’s from ‘shamel,’ a medieval word for booth, because back then the street was full of butcher shops, and they displayed their meat in outdoor booths.”
Khari shuddered. “That’s an image I’ll have trouble forgetting.”
“That’s right—you’re a vegetarian, aren’t you?”
“Pretty much, except I do eat fish.”
Erin sighed. “I don’t have the moral fiber to give up lamb chops.”
“Hey, is that it up ahead? The flyer said meet at the head of the Shambles, in front of the Golden Fleece.”
“There’s a crowd gathering, so that’s probably our tour.”
About twenty people stood at the intersection of Pavement Street and the Shambles, looking around expectantly, so Erin and Khari joined them, their breath misting in the frosty air as the carolers broke into “Once in Royal David’s City.” Their voices were sweet but thin in the frigid air.
Erin and Khari only had a few minutes to wait beneath the streetlamps before a lanky, middle-aged man in a black cape and frock coat arrived. He sported a graying beard and a top hat, which made him look even taller. He wasted no time, addressing the crowd in a strong, theatrical voice.
“Good evening, ladies and victims—uh, gentlemen,” he bellowed, and the crowd giggled nervously. “Welcome to the original York Ghost Tour, and thank you all for coming out on such a frosty night. I am your guide—you can call me Mr. Jack. I shall recount tales of murder, mayhem, and madness, so if you are faint of heart, now is the time to leave.” This was greeted with another titter from the assembled company. “First things first,” he said, pulling a small pouch from his frock coat pocket. “As Sherlock Holmes once said, there is the small matter of my fee.” He proceeded to collect five pounds from each attendee, deftly slipping the change purse back into his pocket.
“Now then,” he said, “follow me!” And he was off, charging across the street and into the Shambles at a brisk pace. The crowd followed, the soft click of leather heels on cobblestones reverberating in the still air, as they entered the heart of the medieval city, the darkness closing in behind them.
The timber-framed buildings of the Shambles teetered at such precarious angles that it looked as though they might tumble to the ground at any moment. They seemed animate, as if their overhanging second stories were leaning toward one another to share gossip, much as medieval housewives would have as they wandered among the butcher stalls lining the street. Erin shivered as they followed “Mr. Jack” through the narrow winding streets—he was lively and informative, clearly enjoying the darker aspects of his narrative as he led them through the old city, while delivering a litany of alleged hauntings.
“Some of you may recognize this,” he said, stopping in front of a long, narrow alleyway between two buildings on Low Petergate. The sign over it read Lund’s Court—beneath that, lettering proclaimed it to be Formerly Mad Alice’s Lane.
“Was she the one hanged for killing her husband?” one of the men asked, a spindly lad in a tan anorak and black stocking hat.
“You are correct, sir!” said Mr. Jack. “Some say the story is apocryphal, but others claim her ghost haunts this very location when the moon is full—as it is tonight,” he added ominously, pointing toward the sky. Sure enough, a pale round moon was poking through the cloud cover, a faint halo shimmering around its outer edge. “They say the crime took place in 1823, and the weapon of choice was poison, as is so often true when the fairer sex is involved,” he added, his gaze lingering for a moment on Erin.
He continued his spiel, but Erin’s attention was taken by a flickering light at the end of Mad Alice’s Lane. It looked as though someone was waving a lantern or a torch—it seemed like a signal of some kind. When the guide wasn’t looking, she slipped into the alley, following along the narrow passageway until it emptied out into a small flagstone courtyard bordered on all four sides by buildings. Three of them had second floor balconies with wrought iron railings. Standing in the courtyard, she looked around for the source of the flickering light, but it had vanished. She was about to leave when movement on one of the balconies caught the corner of her eye. Erin took a few steps across the courtyard toward it, and as she approached, she was vaguely aware of a shuffling sound on the terrace directly above her. She looked up.
What happened next was a blur. She was aware of something hurtling down toward her from the balcony, followed by a pounding blow as the object hit her on the top of her head, and then blackness overtook her.
Chapter Thirty
“Erin! Are you all right? Erin! Wake up, please wake up!”
She opened her eyes to see Khari kneeling by her side. She sounded panicked, and looked utterly terrified. She was gently patting Erin’s cheek, and the first thing Erin did was reach out and grab her wrist. Her head pounded, and even the light touch of Khari’s hand on her cheek hurt.
“Thank God!” Khari said. “I was just about to call 999.”
“No,” Erin said quickly. “I’m fine.” To demonstrate, she started to sit up, which brought on a wave of dizziness.
“Mind you don’t try to move too quickly.”
“I’m all right, really,” Erin said, lifting onto one elbow before sitting up all the way.
“Steady on,” Khari said, sitting beside her. “What happened?”
“I’m not sure,” Erin said, and told her of following the light down the alleyway, then of being struck by something falling from the balcony above her.
/> “Let me see your head,” Khari said, examining it.
“Ouch,” Erin said when her fingers touched a spot in the front, near the top of her forehead.
“There seems to be a bump. No blood, though. What do you think hit you?”
“I don’t know, but it should be on the ground somewhere.”
“There’s nothing nearby.”
“It has to be here! It can’t have gone far.”
Khari took a small torch from her pocket and walked up and down the courtyard, shining it on the cobblestones. “I don’t see anything.”
“Let me look,” Erin said, getting to her feet slowly. She was hit by another wave of dizziness, and Khari grabbed her arm to steady her.
“Are you sure you should be on your feet?”
“I’m all right,” Erin said, looking up at the balconies overhead. There was no movement, and no one was out on their porches. Several of the windows were dark; a few were dimly lit behind pulled curtains, but no sign of anyone moving around inside or peering out the window. Erin thought briefly about knocking on each door to ask if anyone had seen anything, but knew such an intrusion would not be well received in a city overrun with sightseers. The locals already had a love/hate relationship with the tourists who crowded their streets and pubs, roaming their neighborhoods day and night, aware that their influx of money supported York’s businesses and merchants, and buoyed up their property values.
“May I borrow your torch?” she asked.
“Of course,” Khari answered, handing it to her.
Erin walked up and down the courtyard, shining the torch in every corner of the small area. Khari was right—there was nothing. The ground was completely clear of objects; in fact, the cobblestones looked especially clean, as if they had recently been swept.
“See anything?” asked Khari.
“This is really strange,” Erin said, giving her the torch. “Something hit me. It was hard and heavy enough to knock me out.”
“Are you sure you didn’t faint and get that bump falling down?”
“Positive. Something fell off one of these balconies and hit me.”
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