Chapter Seventeen

“That smells brilliant,” Sergeant Jarral remarked as the policemen joined the line of people gathering around the remarkably lush buffet. In addition to the lamb and mashed potatoes, there were salads and platters of fresh fruit as well as hot and cold hors d’oeuvres. The shrimp cocktail platter alone must have cost a fortune. There was even a platter of haggis, and a roast beef with Yorkshire pudding, as well as the inevitable chicken tikka masala.

As the men loaded their plates, Hetty Miller swooped down on them like a bird of prey.

“One thing about Kirkbymoorside,” she said, chewing daintily on a maraschino cherry, “we do brilliant funerals. It’s like a competition—people expect a spread fit for a king. It’s our tradition.”

“Well,” the detective replied, spearing a slice of pineapple from an elaborate fruit display. “It looks like you’ve outdone yourself.”

“Remind me not to die here,” Sergeant Jarral muttered when she had gone. “I can’t afford it.”

“No one else is going to die here if I can help it,” Hemming said, studying the crowd as they joined Constable McCrary at one of the large round tables covered in pale-pink tablecloths.

“What, no haggis?” Sergeant Jarral said, looking at the Scotsman’s plate.

McCrary shuddered. “Ach, no—vile stuff!”

“But it’s the Scottish national dish.”

“Aye, all the bits the landlord didn’t want. Stomach, intestines, an’ all that. I’ll stick to roast beef and Yorkshire puddin’.”

“This is the true British national dish,” Hemming said, taking a bite of chicken tikka masala. “At least according to the British foreign secretary.” It was delicious—spicy and creamy and sweet, with a generous amount of cardamom.

“Aye,” said McCrary. “Though it comes from Scotland.”

“What?”

“He’s right, sir,” said the sergeant. “It was invented by a Pakistani chef at the Shish Mahal restaurant in Glasgow. I’ve been there—quite a good place, actually. Very similar to the dish my uncle makes.”

“Is there anything your family doesn’t do?” Hemming asked.

“We’re not terribly good at football, though I do have one cousin who played on the Welsh national team.”

“Of course,” said Hemming.

He looked around the room. Prudence and Winton Pettibone shared a table with Hetty Miller and Farnsworth Appleby. Hetty was laughing at something Farnsworth had said, a bit of spinach dangling from her teeth. The Pettibones seemed lost in their own little world, Prudence whispering something to her husband, who listened with the same placid expression the detective had noted earlier. He had to admire the couple’s devotion—they were both such odd ducks they were lucky to have found each other.

The detective was helping himself to more shrimp at the buffet when he saw Erin Coleridge walking toward him. Clad in a black form-fitting full-length dress, strawberry-blonde hair piled on top of her head, she cut an elegant figure, more glamorous than the young woman in yoga pants and sandals he had met earlier.

“You clean up well.” It was something his father used to say, and he had no idea why it suddenly popped out of his mouth. He’d never cared for it when his father said it.

Judging by the look on Erin’s face, she didn’t either. “I’m guessing you meant that as a compliment.”

“I meant to say you’re the best-dressed stalker I’ve ever seen.”

“Have you seen many?”

“More than I’d like.”

“By the way, how was the cod?”

“Very good, thanks.”

“Next time try the haddock.”

“I might even make a haddock out of it.”

Erin groaned.

“One of my more irritating traits, I’m afraid—making bad puns.”

“What did you make of Reverend Motley’s eulogy?” she said, spearing a kiwifruit with a toothpick. The deep green complemented her strawberry-blonde hair. “I think he knows something. Have you interviewed him yet?”

“You’re thinking the cleric did it?”

“I just think he knows more than he’s letting on.”

“Pastor future?” he said, and she groaned again. “Sorry, but I did warn you.”

“Poisoners tend to be specific types,” she said, reaching for a slice of mango. “Are you narrowing your search based on that?”

She was, as his father would say, an original text. “Have you tried the tikka masala yet?” he said. “It’s excellent.”

But she would not be swayed. “There’s a cluster of personality traits they tend to exhibit, such as cunning, secretiveness, vanity—”

“If our government were as single-minded as you, the sun would still not be setting on the British Empire.”

“It’s my hobby, remember?”

“Maybe you should take up backgammon.”

“You have a little smudge of sauce on your chin.”

“Oh, saucy Wooster.”

She made a face. “You’re right—your puns really are terrible.”

“Better?” he said, wiping his face with his napkin.

“Not quite. Here, let me,” she said, and before he could stop her, she swiped his chin with her napkin. Her touch was gentle, and—lingering? Or did he imagine it?

“Thanks,” he said. “How did you get so interested in crime?”

“My father is a minister. I went in the other direction, maybe as a form of rebellion. What about you?”

His collar suddenly felt too tight, and he was aware of perspiration gathering around his neck. A piece of shrimp seemed to be stuck in his throat. He gave a little cough to dislodge it.

“Why did you become a policeman?” she asked, spearing a piece of honeydew melon with her toothpick.

He gulped down some beer, swallowing the stuck piece of shrimp.

“My parents were murdered.”

“Oh my God,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m afraid it’s a bit clichéd, my becoming a detective, but there you have it.”

“Did they catch whoever did it?”

“No. The case is still open.”

“What did your parents do for a living?” she said, frowning. Her eyebrows were blonde over deep-set eyes, with long pale lashes beneath the thick-rimmed glasses.

“They were on the faculty at Edinburgh Medical School.”

“Oh, god. How awful.”

“It was a long time ago.” The concern in her eyes made his stomach jump a little, not unpleasantly.

“There’s Owen and Carolyn Hardacker,” she said, pointing to the far side of the room, where the couple sat in deep conversation, a half-empty bottle of Glenlivet in front of them. “I wonder what they’re talking about.”

“Is your friend Ms. Appleby still here?”

“She had to leave, I’m afraid.”

“Erin?” said a child’s voice behind him.

He turned to see a gangly, pale girl of about ten, holding the hand of a boy who could only be her brother. He appeared to be a year or two younger, the family resemblance unmistakable—the same white-blond hair, freckled skin, and pale-blue eyes. It was as if the painter who created them had swept the canvas with water, washing any vivid colors into a pastel version of the original. Their dark clothes emphasized the effect—the girl wore a black velveteen dress with a little red bow (probably her Christmas frock), the boy dapper in a dark-blue suit and clip-on tie over a crisp white shirt, a pair of oversized horn-rimmed glasses giving him a studious look. His mother would have approved, Hemming thought wistfully—she liked it when children were “properly turned out.”

“Hello there,” Erin said, greeting the children warmly. “Are you getting enough to eat?”

The girl rolled her eyes. “James Chester had three helpings of tikka masala. Father said if he has any more, he’ll burst like a tick.”

“What a charming image,” Erin said, wrinkling her nose, which Hemming noticed was thin and straight, delicate but not too short. “This is Detective Inspector Hemming,” she told the children. “And these two rascals,” she said, turning to him, “are Polly Marlowe and her brother James Chester.”

“You’re a real-life detective?” James Chester said, hopping up and down. “Like on the telly?”

“Of course he is,” Polly said disdainfully. “But those are just actors—he’s for real.” She turned to Hemming. “You’ll have to excuse my brother—he’s different.”

“Am not!” he protested.

His sister rolled her eyes. “Don’t have a tantrum right here on the spot.”

Erin gave her tinkly wind-chime laugh. “Isn’t sibling rivalry delightful? Their father is a butcher—I mean—” she said, reddening.

“I know,” Hemming said, smiling. “He owns a shop.”

“His name is James Marlowe—everyone calls me James Chester so it doesn’t get confusing,” the boy interrupted, rocking back and forth. His speech was rapid, with a peculiar flat affect, and Hemming noticed he didn’t make eye contact with the adults.

“Where is your dad?” Erin asked.

“He’s around here somewhere,” Polly said. “Probably chatting up the ladies. Our mother died tragically young,” she informed Hemming, obviously reciting a phrase she had picked up. “So our father is on the lookout for a replacement.”

“Have you ever met a murderer?” James Chester asked him.

“Loads of them.”

“Really? What are they like?”

“They’re like everyone else, silly,” his sister scoffed. “You can’t tell someone’s a murderer just by looking at them.”

“Sometimes you can,” said Hemming.

“H-how?” James Chester said, his pale eyes wide.

“Yeah—how?” his sister echoed. Dropping her superior attitude, she chewed on her right thumbnail.

“Time for all good children to go home,” said a tall, loose-limbed man Hemming assumed was their father.

“But we’re not good children!” Polly said, thrusting her chin out defiantly.

“Another reason you should go home now,” he said. His somewhat rounded face was lent some gravitas by a pair of wire-rimmed glasses; he had the same fair skin as his children, with a spray of freckles. His hair was darker than theirs, thick and wiry with a reddish tint, severely combed to one side, which failed to tame its unruly waves. Though tall, he wasn’t especially athletic looking, with the sort of soft body likely to go to seed in a few years. But Hemming could see how, in the right light and minus the glasses, some women might find him attractive.

“James Marlowe,” he said, offering his hand. “You must be the policemen everyone is talking about. And I’m afraid these two rapscallions are my offspring.”

His hand was big and bony, the knuckles protruding, and his clasp was strong, the grip of a man who used his hands.

“Detective Inspector Hemming, York Constabulary.”

“Please let me know if I can be of any assistance in solving Sylvia’s murder,” he said. “She may not have been a saint, but no one deserves that.”

“How did you get on with her?” Hemming asked.

Marlowe ignored the question. “Any of these people could be the killer, right?” He gave a nervous laugh and ran a hand through his wavy hair. “Well, time to get these little munchkins home before someone turns into a pumpkin.”

Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater, had a wife and couldn’t keep her. The children’s verse ran through his head. Had Jerome Pemberthy killed his wife out of frustration at not being able to keep her at home?

“Let us stay a while longer, please, Daddy?” Polly begged, pulling at the sleeve of his jacket, which was barely long enough to cover his bony wrists. Marlowe definitely had the look of a man without a woman in his life—a look Hemming knew all too well, being himself a member of that pathetic tribe.

“Please—he was telling us about murderers!” James Chester pleaded, latching onto his other sleeve.

“I’m sure Detective Hemming has better things to do,” his father said. “And I’m sure you both want to go to the bonfire later this month, so I suggest you behave.”

“You see how he resorts to threats against us?” Polly told Erin.

“He’s right,” she said.

Polly crossed her arms and scowled. “You grown-ups always stick together!”

“You see what it’s like having children?” Marlowe said, adding hastily, “Not that I’d have it any other way—they’re good kids, really.”

“And good children go home when their father says it’s time, don’t they?” Erin said.

Polly groaned dramatically, arching her back as she clung to her father’s hand, while James Chester attached himself to Marlowe’s leg, burying his face in the thick tweed jacket.

“We’re not good,” he whined, echoing his sister.

“Come alone, then,” James Marlowe said, unmoved by theatrical gestures. “Say good-bye to the nice detective.”

“Good-bye, nice detective,” Polly said, punctuating it with another eye roll.

“Good-bye, nice detective,” her brother repeated, giggling, as their father hauled them both off, one in each arm.

“They are good kids—really,” Erin said.

“In spite of their protestations to the contrary,” Hemming answered, watching them walk away, wondering why Marlowe had ignored his question. “If you’ll excuse me, I must mingle.”

“Yes, of course,” she said, a flush creeping up her neck. “Good seeing you again. Sorry about the stalking.”

“I was rather beginning to enjoy it.”

“Ouch!” a voice said as he collided with the person behind him.

“Sorry,” he said, turning to see Hetty Miller, a wine glass in her manicured hand.

“No worries,” she said sweetly, giving him a toothy smile. With her red cocktail dress two sizes too small, lips and fingernails painted the same fire-engine shade, she resembled an over-the-hill madame. Lowering her voice to a conspiratorial level, she added, “I suppose you’re casing the joint for potential suspects?”

Good lord. Was everyone in this town marinated in police show clichés? “Everyone is a potential suspect,” he replied, “including you.”

To her credit, she rebounded quickly. “Of course I am,” she said sharply. “And don’t you forget it!”

She spun around and stalked away. Hemming watched her teeter off on four-inch stilettos, her backside swaying in its snug cocoon of red satin. He sighed. Why did he feel so protective toward Erin Coleridge, whereas something about Hetty Miller goaded him into rude behavior? He’d apologize later; he’d had enough for today.

Draining the rest of his beer, he spotted Sergeant Jarral across the room, surrounded by a gaggle of admiring women. Hemming frowned—their job wasn’t to entertain the townsfolk. He shouldered his way through the crowd, ears tuned to catch stray bits of conversation, a technique he had honed over the years. You never knew what might be useful—he’d once tracked down a murderer based on a stray remark overheard in the local post office.

“My cousin has a dog like that,” Jarral was saying to a comely young woman with dark braids as Hemming approached. “After a while, he started to look just like his dog.”

The assembled females giggled and gurgled and tossed their curls. Hemming had to admit Jarral had something—he didn’t exactly understand it, but then he wasn’t a fresh-faced village girl whose main impression of the police was crusty, remote Constable McCrary.

Rashid flashed his pearly teeth as a silver-haired old dear in a flowered frock slipped her arm around his.

“I feel ever so much safer knowing you’re here watching over us,” she declared, as the other ladies murmured their consent.

“It must be terribly exciting being a detective,” said the brunette with the braids, eyes glistening with the fervor of youth.

“Not really,” Hemming said, stepping between Jarral and his admirers. Time to put a stop to this nonsense.

“Ah! There you are, sir,” Jarral said in a friendly voice, but he looked disappointed. Hemming felt a little bad about interrupting, but they weren’t there to boost Rashid’s social life.

“May I have a word, Sergeant?”

“Certainly, sir,” he said, gently disengaging from the old dear clinging to him like a barnacle.

As the two men stepped away from the throng of women, Hemming noticed everyone else was looking toward the back of the room. Following their gazes, he saw Jerome Pemberthy stumbling toward Kurt Becker, clutching a beer bottle in his right hand.

“You bloody Kraut,” Pemberthy snarled, his eyes bleary with liquor. “Why don’t you go back to where you came from?”

Owen Hardacker reached for his arm, but Pemberthy shook him off.

“Don’t you think you’ve had a bit too much, Jerry?” Hardacker said.

“Oh, we’ve all had too much,” Pemberthy snapped. “Too much of bloody foreigners, with their snug little shops and snide little wives.” He wheeled around to face Becker. “That skinny wife of yours couldn’t satisfy you, so you had to mess around with mine!”

Kurt Becker had been listening calmly, barely moving a muscle, but now he launched himself at Pemberthy, bringing them both down on the floor, hard. Bones crunched against the wooden floorboards as the two rolled around in a chaotic tumble, limbs askew, clutched in each other’s arms. Pemberthy’s beer bottle clattered to the floor, rolling underneath a chair. Becker staggered to his feet, only to have Pemberthy kick him viciously in the shins, bringing him down again. This time the younger, fitter-looking German got the upper hand, aiming a few swift punches at Pemberthy’s face—to Hemming’s eye, hitting not nearly as hard as he might have.

By that time, Hemming and Jarral had crossed the distance between the two combatants and were pulling them apart with the help of Owen Hardacker and Constable McCrary. The four of them dragged the two men toward opposite corners of the room.

Blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, Pemberthy looked dazed, but as the policemen released their hold on him, he charged with a roar toward the German. Stooping to grab the discarded beer bottle, he held it by the neck and smashed it against the chair. Pointing the jagged shards toward his opponent, he lunged for Becker.

Rashid Jarral responded with a perfectly timed rugby tackle. Coming in low, he wrapped his long arms around the professor’s knees, bringing him down as the broken bottle skittered across the floor. The time when Pemberthy hit the ground, he stayed down, until Jarral pulled him up by the scruff of his neck and flung him into a chair, as easily as if he were made of straw. Hemming appreciated for the first time how powerful the sergeant was, how smooth and graceful his movements.

“Well done,” he murmured as Jarral slapped the dust from his clothes.

“Where’d ye learn tae tackle like that?” asked McCrary.

“I was captain of the firsts’ rugby team at school.”

“Good on ye, mate,” said the constable, patting him on the back.

“Are you all right, sir?” Jarral asked Kurt Becker, who appeared not so much frightened as furious.

“Thank you for your assistance,” the German answered stiffly. Hemming thought he probably would have preferred a pummeling to being rescued, but the detective didn’t relish the thought of Becker’s face slashed to bits. He knelt to pick up the jagged beer bottle from beneath the buffet table, where it had landed. As he stood, he came face-to-face with Erin Coleridge, her blue eyes wide with alarm.

“Are you all right?” she said.

“I’m fine,” he said, turning back to the men waiting for him. As he did, he felt her eyes boring into him. Are you all right? she had said, not Is everyone all right? His skin tingled at the thought that there might be something more between them than was probably good for either of them.