Chapter Thirty-Six

Erin stood in the empty corridor, trying to digest what she had just heard. The knowledge left her stunned—obviously Winton hadn’t told Prudence. If he had, Pru would be devastated and talking of little else. She leaned against the wall as a wave of dizziness swept over her, the tile cool and soothing against her skin. How much time did he have left, and how would she manage to hide this from Prudence?

Questions swirled through her head as she located the nurses’ station, where she was given a yellow plastic pitcher of water along with four small plastic cups. She walked back, looking over her shoulder, afraid she would run into Winton and blurt out something. But there was no sign of him, either in the hallway or at Pru’s bedside—the three women were just as she had left them.

“Thank you, dearie,” Hetty said as Erin handed her a cup of water, then poured one for each of them.

“Chin chin,” said Farnsworth, raising her cup.

“I wish it was Malbec,” Pru said wistfully.

Erin drank hers in one gulp, suddenly very thirsty. She quickly downed another, but her mouth was still dry.

“Did you see Winton?” Pru asked.

“No,” she said, which was technically not a lie.

“He was just going to fetch the car. I wonder what’s taking so long.”

As if in answer to her question, the curtain opened and Winton appeared. “Sorry,” he said in his stiff, formal way. “I got a bit lost, then had a chat with a doctor.”

“About what?” asked Hetty, applying lipstick, holding a compact mirror close to her face. She was extremely nearsighted but too vain to wear glasses.

“Nothing very exciting,” Winton said. He was a better liar than Erin would have given him credit for. “I had a couple of minor medical questions. How are you feeling, Prudy?”

“Better now that you’re here,” she said, beaming like a schoolgirl. Erin felt a pang as she watched the couple, the spark still strong between them. How much longer could he hide his diagnosis from his wife?

“The car’s just outside. Would you like a lift?” he asked Hetty.

“I’ll be fine,” she muttered, pushing her lower lip forward like a sulky child.

“Don’t be daft,” said Prudence. “Of course we’ll take you.”

“If you insist,” Hetty said.

Erin wondered what bee was in her bonnet, but Hetty’s moods were legendary. Once she’d gone for a week without speaking to anyone. It was something about a crab sandwich—Erin had forgotten the details.

“It’s been a long night,” said Farnsworth.

“I expect you all feel a bit bedraggled,” said Winton. He was trying to be solicitous, but his words left an awkward pause in the air.

“I know I am,” Erin said too heartily, avoiding eye contact with him.

“Well, I for one am looking forward to a hot bath,” Hetty declared, snapping shut her compact. Erin wondered who the makeup was for—did she hope to meet some dreamy doctor on her way out of the hospital?

The staff insisted Prudence and Hetty make their exit in wheelchairs—something to do with insurance, according to the night-shift nurse. Prudence enjoyed the attention, but it put Hetty in an even fouler mood. Standing outside the front entrance watching Winton drive off slowly with the two women safely stowed in the car, Erin was relieved to see the last of them for a while.

“Shall we go?” said Farnsworth.

Erin shivered as the night air wrapped around them like a cloak, a crown of stars glittering overhead, cold as diamonds. She looked back at the hospital, its glowing windows warm and beckoning.

“Yes,” she said. “Shall I drive?”

“I’m all right now,” Farnsworth said.

They drove for a while in silence. Then, as they turned off Barugh Lane, Farnsworth said, “Do you really think people in town are biased against the Beckers?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I was just thinking about what Suzanne said to you.”

“I have heard one or two people grumble about how ‘German’ they are.”

“And just how German are they, allegedly?” said Farnsworth.

“Oh, you know—punctual, neat, humorless; that kind of thing.”

“That could describe half the people in Kirkbymoorside.”

“Stereotypes can be recycled to include so many groups.”

“True enough,” Farnsworth agreed. “The Scots are supposed to be stingy, but so are the Dutch and the French—”

“Not to mention the Jews.”

“My mother was part Jewish, and she could be outrageously extravagant.”

“I didn’t know you were part Jewish.”

“I strive to maintain an aura of mystery,” Farnsworth said, turning into Erin’s driveway.

As she pulled up to the house, Erin blurted out, “Winton Pettibone has cancer. I think it’s pancreatic.”

Farnsworth’s jaw actually dropped. “What?”

“I thought he looked thinner.”

“I remember you saying that, but how—”

“I overheard a conversation with a doctor in the hospital. I recognized the drugs they were talking about.”

“How did you—?”

“My mother. She died of the same thing.”

“Does Prudence know?”

“I’m pretty sure he’s hiding it from her.”

“Good lord.”

They sat for a moment, their breath fogging the windows. Outside, an owl hooted softly from the sycamore tree.

“You can’t tell anyone I told you this.”

Farnsworth unbuckled her seat belt. “Poor Prudence. What will she do without him?”

“What any of us do when we lose people we love,” Erin said. “We muddle on.”

Her friend sighed deeply. “I know it sounds daft, but sometimes I miss Dastardly Dick.”

“Really?”

“We had some good times. And I try to think only of the past as its remembrance gives me pleasure.”

“That may have worked for Elizabeth Bennet, but is it realistic? I can’t seem to manage it.”

“But you’re so much like Elizabeth.”

“You flatter me.”

“You’re independent and loyal, and determined—”

“You really must stop, or my head will be too big to fit through my front door.”

Farnsworth laid a hand on her arm. “The coppers don’t seriously think I offed poor Dick, do they?”

“They’ll find out soon enough that’s rubbish.”

“Snoop around and let me know, would you, pet?”

“Of course.”

Farnsworth yawned. “I’d better go. I’m sure the furries are wondering what’s become of me. Darcy will be waiting up for me.”

“Lucky you.”

“You’d have a real Darcy waiting for you if you weren’t so standoffish, pet.”

“I have more important things on my mind.”

“Like solving murders, you mean?”

“Exactly,” Erin said. She felt a little guilty about neglecting to tell Farnsworth about kissing Jonathan Alder, not to mention her crush on Detective Hemming, but she knew if she did, she’d never hear the end of it.

“Blasted stupid thing,” Farnsworth said, struggling to put her seat belt back on. Farnsworth was constantly at war with the physical world. Sometimes Erin thought it was all on purpose, since she did some things so well, like cooking and making coffee.

“Good night,” said Erin. “Try and get some sleep.”

“You as well, pet. Sorry about your car.”

The Sunbeam was Erin’s one extravagant possession, a gift from her father. She hoped her insurance would pay for the damage. She unlocked her door, Farnsworth waiting until she was safely inside before leaving. Erin turned on the outside light to signal all was well, the yellow glow illuminating her little front patio. A soft harvest moon had broken through the cloud cover and cast its pale light over the countryside.

She watched Farnsworth’s tail lights disappear down the driveway, then went through the shop, past silent shelves of books illuminated by moonlight streaming through the windows. The living room smelled musty, and she thought of opening a window, but it was so late she wanted nothing more than a bath and bed.

As she slid into the hot water, Erin couldn’t stop thinking about the accident. Who passed a car on a country road late at night? A sneaking dread worked its way into her consciousness. What if it hadn’t been an accident at all—what if the driver had deliberately been trying to run Prudence off the road? But why? A sudden realization sliced her thoughts like a shard of glass, and she wondered why it hadn’t occurred to her earlier. Whoever had run her car off the road wasn’t after Prudence at all.

They were after her.