Chapter Thirty-Nine

Erin spent most of the ride back staring out the window. The presence of the perfume was unsettling, but was it just coincidence? She needed to talk the police out of giving her protection—she couldn’t possibly continue her sleuthing with a cop constantly tailing her.

When they arrived back at the police station, Detective Hemming asked her to come inside. “I’d like to know why you think the accident might have been deliberate,” he said, shielding his eyes from the glare of sunlight. With the light directly on them, his eyes were pale turquoise, like pictures she had seen of the Caribbean Sea.

“I may have overreacted. I don’t want to waste your time.”

“It’s our job to protect people.”

Sergeant Jarral stepped in. “Did Mrs. Pettibone get a look at the other driver?”

Erin shook her head.

“Maybe we can find some paint transfer to identify the other car,” Hemming suggested.

“But the other car never actually hit my car. You can talk to the patrolmen who took their statement.”

The two men exchanged glances, and Hemming turned to Erin. “Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt you?”

“I think my imagination got the better of me. I’ll be fine, really. Are there any updates on the investigation into the death of Farnsworth’s husband?”

Hemming looked surprised. “What?” He glared at Sergeant Jarral, who hung his head.

“Sorry, sir.”

The detective rubbed his eyes wearily. “What did you tell her?”

“Just that we were looking into the—”

Hemming turned to Erin. “Let me make two things clear. First of all, I’m not looking into Mr. Appleby’s death—that’s entirely on our boss in York, DCI Witherspoon. Secondly—”

“You wouldn’t tell me if you did know.”

“Correct,” he said sternly, though she thought he was suppressing a smile. “Now let us take you home.”

“I’m going to do a bit of shopping; then I’ll call a cab.”

“But—”

“Thanks for everything,” she said, shaking his hand. It was warm and unexpectedly soft, though she could feel the strength in his fingers.

Erin walked resolutely in the direction of the shops, but when she was a few blocks from the police station, she called a cab and gave them Prudence Pettibone’s address.

*   *   *

Prudence was at home nursing her broken arm—she seemed to be having a fine time, as Winton hovered over her with tea and biscuits. After plying Erin with homemade zucchini bread, he withdrew quietly into his woodshop, where, according to Pru, he was making a new set of kitchen drawers.

“He loves working with his hands,” she said, sipping her tea, perched on a chaise in the sunroom at the back of the house, a lamb’s-wool comforter draped over her. The lemony October sun stretched languidly across the room, creeping halfway up the side of the far wall. “He’s taking such wonderful care of me during my recovery.” She pronounced recovery as though it were synonymous with deathbed.

“I never heard Hetty say anything against Sylvia,” Prudence said when Erin brought it up. “Do you have reason to suspect her?”

“No really,” Erin lied. She didn’t want Prudence running to warn Hetty, and besides, she didn’t have any concrete evidence. It was entirely possible someone else wearing lily-of-the-valley perfume had used that phone booth. “I was thinking,” she said to Prudence, “if you have any old minutes from past meetings, we might find a clue there.”

“I have minutes from all the meetings,” Prudence said proudly. “Ever since the first ones—long before your time.”

“Could I have a look at them?”

“I don’t see why not. Would you mind fetching my laptop from the study? It should be on the desk.”

Erin went down the hall to the little study in the corner of the house. It was a model of organization, all the books and papers stacked in tidy rows on shelves Winton had made himself. The workmanship was good—solid and well crafted. She found the computer on the desk.

Erin returned to the sun porch and gave Prudence the computer.

“Let’s see,” Pru said, opening a folder titled JAS MINUTES. Scrolling through it, she pointed to a subfolder with the heading 2002. “That’s our first year, when we had all the meetings in York, and Farnsworth was the club secretary.”

“So these are her minutes?”

“Yes. We only had eight members that year, but we grew quickly.”

“Who were they?”

“Let’s see … apart from me and Sylvia, Farnsworth and her husband, there was—”

“Farnsworth’s husband?”

“Oh, yes—it was later that year he ran off with the barmaid.” Prudence shook her head. “It’s really too bad Sylvia and Farnsworth never made up after that. They used to be such good friends.”

“Really? I never knew that.”

“Oh, yes, they were very close, but they had a terrible falling-out.”

“How was it related to Farnsworth’s husband?”

“Sylvia knew about it, you see—the business with the barmaid. And she never told Farnsworth. So of course when Dastardly Dick ran off with that girl, Farnsworth blamed Sylvia for not telling her.”

“I can see why she was upset, but—”

“Farnsworth really values loyalty.”

“She never said anything to me about it.”

“It’s still a touchy subject.”

“Do the police know?”

“I certainly didn’t mention it.”

“Someone might have told them.”

“That was years ago,” Prudence said, sipping her tea. “If Farnsworth had murderous feelings toward Sylvia, don’t you think she’d have acted on them earlier?”

“The human heart is a strange labyrinth of twists and turns.”

“You should put that in one of your poems,” said Prudence. “That’s quite good.”

“I hear rumors that you’re keen on putting your hat in the ring for club president.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Pru said, pouring more tea.

“I think you’d be quite a good candidate.”

“Really?” Her whole body came to attention, like a bird dog on a scent; her spine was stiffer and her eyes sparkled. Then she gave a wry smile. “‘I wish, as well as everybody else to be perfectly happy; but, like everybody else, it must be in my own way. Greatness will not make me so.’”

The idea of equating greatness with being president of the Jane Austen Society was so absurd, Erin nearly burst out laughing, but Pru wasn’t being ironic. Swallowing her impulse, Erin said, “What’s that from?”

“Sense and Sensibility. And yes, to be completely candid, I did fancy a go at the post, but now with poor Sylvia’s death, I wonder if it would be the wisest thing.”

“That’s a good point,” Erin said, thinking that if Prudence had poisoned Sylvia, her remark would be a logical attempt at a cover-up. “Mind if I take a copy of those minutes with me?”

“There are some spare memory sticks in the study. Top right desk drawer—go fetch one and we’ll make a copy.”

Erin found the thumb drive right where Pru said it was, and was about to leave when a photograph on the bookshelf caught her eye. It was of a much younger Prudence, her arm around an older woman with the same delicate, small-boned features and turned-up nose. Erin was struck by how pretty Prudence was at that age—time had not been kind to her. Her face had taken on a pinched aspect. Erin remembered overhearing Sylvia calling her “a constipated prune.” She didn’t imagine there was a time when Pru and Sylvia had ever gotten along—they were so different. And yet Hetty and Pru were pals, even though they were so different, and the friendship had its share of mutual sniping.

She returned to the sun porch to find Prudence sipping the last of her tea, her nose in a book she had recently purchased from Erin, What Jane Austen Ate and Charles Dickens Knew.

Pru looked up when she entered. “This is a fascinating book. Everything was so ritualized in those days—everyone knew what the rules were and what was expected of them. I think I would have much preferred it.”

“I know what you mean,” Erin said, inserting the memory stick into the laptop. “Sometimes the price of freedom is uncertainty.”

“Another bon mot. You’re on a roll today.”

Opening the files on the laptop, Erin selected the ones to copy. “That picture in the study—is that you with your mother?”

Pru’s face went soft, and in that moment she resembled the pretty young woman in the photo. “Oh, yes—Winton took that when she was living with us. She died not long after.”

“She looks so healthy in the photo.”

“She came down with a terrible case of food poisoning. By the time we got to hospital, it was too late.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Winton was devastated. He blamed himself—the car battery was dead, so there was a delay getting to hospital.”

“It wasn’t his fault.”

“The poor old dear. A weakened immune system, the doctor said. How is your car?”

“It should be ready in a couple of days.”

“Of course I’ll pay for any repairs.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Erin said, removing the thumb drive with the copied files.

“Nonsense—I insist.”

“I’m just glad you weren’t seriously injured.”

“Tell you the truth, it’s given me an excuse to take it easy. Winton has been a lamb, looking after my every need.” She sighed. “I’m afraid I won’t be up to going to the bonfire this year—but maybe I can convince him to go without me. He always loves it so.”

“Thanks for the files,” Erin said, getting up. “Can I get you anything?”

“There’s one thing you could do, if you’re willing.”

“Of course.”

“Get me a cutting from Caroline’s latest orchid. She emailed me that she got a new Phalaenopsis schilleriana and promised me a cutting. When you have your car back, of course.”

“I’ll take my bike.”

“There’s no need—”

“It’s a nice ride, only three miles each way. I’ll go Saturday morning, on my way to the shops; then I’ll drop it off afterward.”

“If you’re sure—”

“Absolutely. It’s good exercise.”

“Let me write it down for you,” Pru said, scribbling on a piece of paper with her good left hand. “Sorry my writing is so bad. Can you read that?”

“It’s fine,” Erin said, slipping it into her pocket.

“It’s an especially graceful variety,” Prudence said, her eyes dreamy. “The blossoms are the loveliest pale lilac.” When Pru talked about orchids, her face softened and her whole body relaxed.

“I’d like to have a quick word with Winton before I go. Do you think he’d mind?”

“I’m sure he’d be delighted. His woodshop is at the back of the house.”

“Thanks,” Erin said, winding through the narrow hallway leading to the back. The shop was a shedlike structure attached to the rear of the ancient cottage, done with such taste and skill that it perfectly matched the original in style.

“Oh, hello,” Winton said when she entered the little room with its low, sloping ceiling. He held a hammer in his hand; on the worktable in front of him was a partially finished birdhouse. “It’s for the finches,” he explained. “Prudy loves their singing, and since she’s laid up for a while, I thought she’d appreciate havin’ them nearby.”

“How lovely. She’s is lucky to have you.”

“I don’ know ’bout that,” he said, looking away.

“I wanted to see how you were getting on after being attacked the other day,” Erin said. “It must have been terrifying.”

“Oh, don’ bother ’bout that. It weren’t nothin’.”

“Did you get a glimpse of your attacker?”

“’Fraid not—it all happened so fast, like.”

“Did someone have a look at your head?”

“I didn’ want t’cause any bother.”

“May I see it?”

“I’d rather not, if y’don’t mind.”

“All right—I didn’t mean to be intrusive.”

“Aye, it’s just that I’m kinda private that way, y’understand.”

“Of course. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Thanks so much for droppin’ in on Prudy. It means the world to her.”

“My pleasure.”

After saying good-bye, Erin took another cab to her cottage. Winton offered to drive her, but she didn’t want to put him out; he looked so happy with his woodworking. During the ride, she gazed out the window, wondering why Winton didn’t want her examining his head injury. Was it just his vanity—did he really think he was fooling anyone with that dreadful wig?

By the time she returned, it was long after sunset, so she cut a few slices of roast beef from a joint in the fridge, made a sandwich, and sat down to study the meeting minutes. Before long, her eyes were drooping. Looking at the clock, she was surprised to see it was nearly eleven.

Too tired for a bath, she crawled into bed and was soon asleep. She dreamed of riding her bike through fields of orchids, pursued by a hulking lorry, lurching and belching smoke from its black tail pipes. The driver behind the wheel laughed at her, his face a mask of malice. She awoke just before dawn, shivering, and lay watching the sun rise before sinking gratefully back into the arms of oblivion.