Chapter Eighteen

During the warmer months, Saturday was a busy day at the bookstore, but Erin expected the moody October drizzle to scare off customers and was hoping to curl up with a book and a cup of tea, write poetry, or watch old Ealing comedies. The landline rang at precisely ten, just as she was filling a hot water bottle to put on her aching head. Before Erin could say hello, Farnsworth gave her customary greeting.

“Good morning, pet. Not dead yet, are we?”

“Does a wicked hangover count?” she said, looking out the window at the slate-gray sky hanging heavily over the moors, listening to the steady ping of raindrops on the eaves.

“I hope it was worth it.”

“That remains to be seen,” she said, testing the tap water to see if it was hot yet. The old pipes rumbled and creaked as the water heater cranked to life. “I’m working on the antidote to a bottle of Montrachet.”

“I hope at least you shared it with the right person.”

“You cut out early last night,” Erin said, cradling the phone receiver between her right ear and shoulder, holding the water bottle under the kitchen faucet.

“Had to get home to my felines. They don’t stop needing to be fed just because Sylvia died, you know.”

“Poor Sylvia—no respect, even in death.”

“Pish tosh. Funerals are for the living, not the dead. And I wasn’t keen to hang about with those detectives staring at me. Did I miss anything?”

“As a matter of fact, you did,” she said, describing the fight between Jerome Pemberthy and Kurt Becker.

“I’m glad no one was seriously hurt.”

“An ego or two sustained a few bruises.”

“It’s hard to imagine stuffy old Professor Pemberthy indulging in fisticuffs. It must have been glorious.”

Erin laughed, groaning as her head throbbed more violently.

“Wish I were there to make you chicken soup, pet.”

“That is extremely considerate of you, Miss Appleby,” Erin said, slipping into the posh accent she and Farnsworth used when mimicking Jane Austen characters. “I cannot think why I imagined overindulging in spirits would have agreeable consequences.”

“It is a marker of youth to imagine agreeable outcomes for the most foolish behavior,” Farnsworth said. “Those of us who should be inured to such wishful thinking are sadly in want of it all too often.”

“I will endeavor to apply that lesson and improve my judgment in the future.”

Pressing the water bottle to her head, Erin leaned against the sturdy wooden door frame separating the kitchen from the parlor, dark from years of smoke from the fireplace. The wood was warm, yielding to her touch. Sometimes she thought she could feel the tree it had been hewn from centuries ago. Her father labeled moments like that her “spooky self.”

“So do you think Jerome Pemberthy killed his wife?” Farnsworth said.

“‘We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man,’” Erin remarked, quoting Mr. Bennet on the subject of Mr. Darcy. “But he seemed genuinely upset when I went to his house. And if he killed her, why attack Kurt Becker? He drew attention to himself—the real killer would want to stay out of the spotlight.”

Farnsworth snorted. “He’s such a tosser.”

“That doesn’t make him a murderer. I did overhear one interesting conversation, though.”

“Pray tell!”

Erin told her about eavesdropping on Jonathan and Carolyn.

“Sounds like he has money worries,” Farnsworth said.

“Perhaps he’s more like Mr. Wickham than Mr. Bingley.”

“Watch yourself with him, pet.”

“I’m going to forget about everything and curl up with a good book for a few hours.”

“Emma, get off that!” Farnsworth yelled. “Stop it! I’m sorry, Erin,” she said into the receiver. “One of the cats is about to topple the—Emma, no!” Erin heard what sounded like a heavy object crashing to the floor. “Sorry—I must go!”

Erin was about to ring off when she heard call waiting. She pressed the receiver once. “Hello, Dad.” Her father usually called on Sunday, after the early-morning service.

There was a brief silence, then the sound of someone breathing into the phone.

“Hello?” she said, a feeling of dread threading its way up her spine.

Another pause, and then a dial tone. Erin shoved the phone back into the cradle, then, her hands shaking, dialed 1471 to call the number back. She let it ring twenty times before replacing the phone. Her landline was old-fashioned and didn’t have caller ID. She thought of calling the operator to find out where the call originated but wasn’t sure that was even possible. And what if it was just a wrong number or a simple crank call? It wouldn’t do to panic over nothing, she told herself.

She stooped to lay some kindling in the grate. The nights were growing colder now, and the thick stone walls of her cottage held in the morning chill. She stuffed a crumpled newspaper under the kindling. Lighting a match and holding it to the paper, she watched as the blue flames rose, licking eagerly at the kindling, blossoming yellow and then bright orange.

The cottage felt cheerier as the heat from the fire spread; the throbbing in her head subsided as she put the kettle on for tea. Coffee was too harsh for her stomach, but a good strong cup of Yorkshire tea would do nicely.

Outside, a crow huddled on the nearest branch of the beech tree, shoulders hunched, and gave a hollow caw that was swallowed up by the misty rain creeping over the moors. Winton Pettibone had once told her the tree was older than her house; she wondered if it was true. She also thought about a remark he had made to the effect that whoever had killed Sylvia was targeting her alone and not other members of the society. She agreed with him, but there was a sense of unease among the members, a feeling that they too could be in danger.

She dangled a tea bag into her favorite mug, creamy ivory with a ring of pale-pink hearts, a present from her mother. Pouring in the hot water, she watched as the copper swirls seeped into the clear liquid, turning it red. She settled onto the antique sofa with the chintz upholstery—a relic from earlier times, cheery and hopeful, like her mother. Erin remembered the day her mother picked it out. They were prowling charity shops in Oxford, and she had pounced on it the minute they entered the Oxfam shop on Broad Street.

“There it is!” she cried, her enthusiasm catching the attention of strangers. “Just what I’ve been looking for!” People looked up from what they were doing and smiled, stiff British matrons in brown tweed skirts and sensible shoes beaming at the sight of her mother waxing eloquent over the virtues of a chintz sofa. It was impossible to be glum when Gwyneth Coleridge was around.

Within thirty minutes she had haggled the price down a third, cajoled them into free delivery, and somehow made it seem like she was doing them a favor. Erin left the store filled with awe at her mother’s effortless charm—whatever she wanted, she seemed to get. Defeat was not in her vocabulary.

Except, of course, when it came to the cancer. It had spread quickly, implacable and relentless, greedily gobbling up her body’s healthy cells. The end, when it came, was ugly and sudden, leaving Erin and her father stunned and reeling with the unfairness of it all.

The phone rang again, and she trembled as she picked it up, hoping it was her father.

“Hello, pumpkin,” he said.

“Hello,” she said, relief flooding her veins. “How are things Southside?” Since moving north, she had taken to calling Oxford “Southside.”

“Foggy and rainy,” he said, his voice strangely subdued. “You?”

“The same,” she said, looking out the window at the beech tree. Abandoned by the crow, its branches shivered in the misty drizzle.

“Pathetic fallacy,” he said glumly. “Even Nature is somber today.”

His remark brought an unwelcome realization. It must be the anniversary of her mother’s death. Erin purposely avoided remembering the exact date she had died—seeing no point in such morbid anniversaries—but her father never missed it, and always called her on that day.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Fine, thanks.” She decided not to mention the mysterious phone call.

“Are you hungover?”

“Why do you say that?”

“You always drink too much at funerals.”

The last—and only—time she had overindulged was her mother’s funeral. She didn’t like to think about it.

“There’s a tradition here, apparently, to lay on a massive spread of food and drink. I overdid both.”

“I’m worried about you. There’s a murderer loose.”

“They were after Sylvia, not me.”

“Why don’t you come down to Oxford for a few days?”

“That’s tempting, but I’m advising the police on the case.” Not strictly true, perhaps, but close enough.

“You’re keen on him—the detective, I mean.”

“Why on earth would you say that?”

“A father knows these things.”

“Shouldn’t you be writing your sermon?” she said, looking at the clock.

“I’m taking the day off. Reverend Masters is taking over for me.”

“Lucky you, playing hooky,” she said lightly, knowing full well why he’d taken time off but wanting to steer away from the subject.

“If you caught a train, you could be here in time to go with me to see her.”

“I’m not supposed to leave town,” she lied. She was trying to move on with her life and wanted her father to do the same.

“Surely the police wouldn’t mind you slipping away to visit your frail old da.”

“That hardly describes you.”

“I’m turning into a geezer. Yesterday I had to pluck my nose hairs.”

“I’ll come soon—I promise,” she said. “And I’ll bring tweezers.”

She gazed out the window at the moors, covered in white mist. The fog had thickened so much she couldn’t see very far—it was like the landscape was wrapped in gauze. No telling what dangers lurked outside the snug walls of her cottage.

“Please be careful.”

“I will. Good-bye—thanks for calling.”

“Bye, pumpkin.”

She hung up and wandered back into the kitchen. She didn’t like disappointing her father. Not for the first time, she thought about how different she was from her mother. People always wanted things from Gwyneth Coleridge, and she thrived on it; it seemed to feed something deep inside her. Or maybe that was a mask—maybe all that energy and charm hid a secretly solitary nature she was too proud to acknowledge.

Erin hurried to her writing desk, pulled out her poetry notebook, and scribbled down a few brief lines.

WHAT WE ARE ASHAMED OF, WE OFTEN HIDE WITH EXCESS PRIDE.

She wondered if that was true of her mother—whether Gwyneth Gates Coleridge, in her brief and fiery life, had been caught up in a monstrous lie. Taking up her pen, Erin scribbled another line. TRUTHS WE HIDE ARE OFTEN WORSE THAN LIES WE SPREAD WITH PRIDE.

She wasn’t entirely sure what all of this meant, or even if it applied to her mother, but one thing remained clear: in the village of Kirkbymoorside, hidden truths and outright lies served to mask the identity of a murderer.