Chapter Forty-Two

“Erin Coleridge has been in an accident.”

Peter Hemming felt the air being sucked out of his lungs. Without thinking, he rose from his chair, and was hit by a wave of dizziness that made him grip the desk to steady himself from falling.

Sergeant Jarral’s handsome face crinkled in concern. “You all right, sir?”

“Yes,” he said, wiping a thin layer of sweat from his upper lip. The station house was quiet, but Jarral’s words had shattered the air like the blast of a shotgun. “What happened?”

“She was knocked from her bike by a car. They didn’t stick around, so McCrary’s got patrols out looking for the driver.”

“How is she?”

“She wouldn’t go to hospital. Insisted on being taken to Mrs. Appleby’s house, sir.”

“When was all this?”

“McCrary just called while you were fetching your mobile at the George and Dragon.”

Having left his mobile in his room that morning, Hemming had gone back to get it after dropping Jarral off at the station house.

“Where is she now?”

“She’s over at Mrs. Appleby’s, far as I know.”

“Let’s go,” Hemming said, throwing on his coat.

“Sir?”

“Come along, Sergeant.”

“You think it’s related to the case?”

“It’s our job to find out,” he said, walking so briskly from the room Sergeant Jarral had to stretch his long legs to keep up.

The sergeant had barely buckled his seat belt when Hemming took off down the road, going from zero to forty within seconds.

“This thing has more pickup than I realized,” Jarral said as they zoomed through town. An old man with a black Labrador on a leash glared at them as the detective pulled away from a traffic light, gunning the engine.

Jarral rolled down the window, letting in the lingering aroma of roast lamb from one of the houses along the road as they swept past hedgerows and farm fields. A sheep farmer in Wellies and an oilcloth duster was working a couple of border collies on his herd, the dogs working smoothly to drive the sheep toward the barn, nipping at their heels to keep them in a tight bunch.

“My cousin has a couple of herding dogs,” Jarral remarked as they pulled up behind a slow-moving lorry.

“Of course he does,” Hemming said, trying to keep his blood pressure from climbing as they crawled along behind the lorry.

“She, actually—runs a B and B in Wexford, and got them off a local farmer. They were the runts of the litter, and she couldn’t bear the idea of them being sent to the local shelter.”

“What a range of morality we Homo sapiens display,” Hemming said as they followed the lumbering lorry, its truck bed brimming over with harvested hay.

“How’s that, sir?”

“Your sister—”

“Cousin, sir.”

“Your cousin is so softhearted she takes in two dogs she doesn’t need to save them from a few weeks of kennel life. Yet someone in this village thinks nothing of poisoning a fellow human. Oh, thank God,” he said as the lorry turned off the main road, the hay tipping precariously as it swung around the corner. A few wisps of straw fluttered into the air and landed on his windshield.

He turned on the wipers—a few swipes sent the errant strands flying, taken by the wind, their next destination a mystery. If only people were so easily disposed of—murderers, thieves, poisoners, he thought as he steered clear of a badger on the side of the road. He watched in the rearview mirror as the creature waddled across the pavement, its striped face reminding him of the black-and-white clothes prisoners used to wear. Now, of course, orange was the new black and white.

Pulling up at the back entrance to the ramshackle farmhouse, Hemming vaulted out of the car as Sergeant Jarral hurried after him. A mangled red bicycle leaned against the dilapidated garage, its rear wheel twisted. Hemming took a deep breath and knocked on the kitchen door.

A voice he recognized as Farnsworth Appleby’s called out, “Coming!”

He waited impatiently, biting his lip, until the door was opened, Mrs. Appleby’s impressive body filling most of the door frame. She wore a flowered silk kimono over black leggings.

“Hello, pet,” she said. “I’ve been expecting you. Come in.”

The two men filed into her spacious, cluttered kitchen while being sniffed at by half a dozen felines. An orange tabby rubbed against Hemming’s ankles, and he sneezed violently.

“Now, Wickham, behave,” Farnsworth said, picking up the cat. “Can’t you see the nice detective is allergic to you?” The animal purred loudly in her arms and attempted to lick her face.

“Where is she?” Hemming asked, looking around.

“If you mean Erin,” Farnsworth said firmly, “she’s resting.”

“Can I speak to her?”

Farnsworth put the cat down, and it immediately made a beeline for Hemming. “He likes you,” she said. “And no, you can’t talk to her at the moment.”

“It’s all right—I’m awake.”

They all turned to see Erin Coleridge standing at the door separating the kitchen from the rest of the house. Dressed in pajamas several sizes too large, she looked pale and shaken. Her left arm was in a sling and a white bandage was wound around her forehead, a little blood seeping through. Hemming’s knees went a little weak.

“Why aren’t you in hospital?” he said sternly.

“I don’t like them.”

“I’m a registered nurse,” Farnsworth said. “Or at least I was one in my previous life.”

“So you patched her up?” Jarral asked.

“I did, though I warned her about the dangers of concussion and urged her to seek professional care.”

“But she wouldn’t?”

“I was just wasting my breath, pet. She’ll do what she likes, and that did not include seeing a doctor.”

“Who did this?” Hemming asked Erin. “Did you get a look at the car?”

“No,” she said, sitting gingerly on the nearest chair.

“Should you be up, pet?” Farnsworth asked.

“I’m all right.”

“You don’t look all right,” Hemming said, frowning. “Is there anything you can tell us about the car that hit you?”

“It came from behind. Next thing I knew, I was in a ditch.”

“Who found you?” Jarral said.

“Winton Pettibone. He was returning from the shops, and he stopped to help me.”

“He tried to take her to hospital, but she insisted on coming here,” Farnsworth said.

“That’s it—from now on, you’re under police protection,” said Hemming.

Erin frowned. “But—”

“It’s not up for debate.”

“Do you have the manpower for that, pet?” asked Farnsworth.

“I’ll bring in men from York if I have to.”

“Poisoners aren’t confrontational,” Erin pointed out. “So this wasn’t necessarily the same person.”

“I’d say it was a pretty cowardly act,” Hemming said. “Hitting you from behind like that. You know you have to stop investigating on your own, right?”

“He’s right, pet,” said Farnsworth. “You could become the next victim.”

Erin didn’t answer.

“I want you to check in with me every day,” said Hemming, handing her a card. “Here’s my mobile number. And please be careful!” He looked at Farnsworth. “Get her to a doctor, will you?”

“Right,” she said. “Why don’t I solve global warming while I’m at it?”

Back in the car, Jarral said, “Who do you think did it, sir?”

“I have a hunch,” Hemming said, turning the key in the ignition. “Let’s see what the professor was up to this morning.”

A few minutes later they drove up to the handsome townhouse, with its multiple chimneys and crisp white stucco exterior. Parking the car in front, they approached the black-lacquered door with the brass lion’s head knocker.

Several loud knocks brought no response, and they turned to leave when Hemming noticed the lid of the mailbox was ajar. A few envelopes and periodicals poked out at different angles—it was evident no one had picked up the mail for several days.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking, sir?” Jarral said.

Hemming looked at the empty house, its windows dark and silent.

“It appears Professor Pemberthy has gone on the lam.”

“He could also be the next victim, sir,” Jarral said as they climbed back into the car.

“His car isn’t here, though, suggesting he’s flown the coop.”

Either way, Hemming thought as they pulled away from the empty house, it wasn’t good news.

“Where to now, sir?” said Jarral.

“Let’s drop in on Mrs. Pettibone. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

But the promise felt hollow as the bell high atop All Souls as it summoned believers to Saturday evening vespers. Peter Hemming did not believe in God—as he listened to the solemn, mournful sound, he realized he had little faith in anything at all.