Chapter Forty-Three

Erin watched Farnsworth bustle about as cats wandered in and out of the room, playing with bits of string, cleaning themselves, investigating half-open drawers or lying in the sun streaming in through the windows.

“I’m going to make you a good strong cup of Yorkshire tea, then it’s back to bed with you,” Farnsworth said, putting out a plate of muffins.

“First I want to look through these minutes Pru gave me,” Erin said, spreading the pages out on the kitchen table.

“What do you think you’ll find?”

“I don’t know, but I’m starting with the most recent ones.”

“Don’t wear yourself out, pet,” Farnsworth said, filling the teakettle with fresh water. “That shoulder of yours had a nasty bang, and you need to give it a rest.”

“‘Nothing ever fatigues me, but doing what I do not like.’”

“Pouring through minutes is not my idea of a jolly time,” Farnsworth said, as Erin’s mobile rang.

Erin answered it, finding a very distraught Carolyn Hardacker on the line.

“I heard about the accident,” Carolyn said. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, thanks. I was lucky.”

“I owe you an explanation. I’m sorry about the book. Thank you for not mentioning it to the police.”

“Why did you take it?”

“Take what?” Farnsworth said. “What did she take?” But Erin waved her off.

“I was afraid it would look suspicious, and you’d tell the police,” said Carolyn.

“So you just took it?”

“I was going to give it back.”

“Can you put her on speaker phone?” Farnsworth whispered. “Please?”

Erin shook her head. “But why did you need it in the first place?”

“I was afraid Owen … well, I thought maybe he did it.”

“He didn’t care about being society president that much, did he?”

“It’s not that,” Carolyn said, her voice shaking.

“Please, oh please, put it on speaker phone!” Farnsworth whined.

“What then?” said Erin as Farnsworth tried to grab the phone from her.

Carolyn lowered her voice, as though she didn’t want someone else to hear. “It’s because I was—involved—with Sylvia.”

“Involved? You mean—”

“It was before her marriage. We were young and in love—or so I thought. But she met Jerome and moved on.”

“So Owen knew about you and Sylvia?”

“Somehow he found out.”

“When?”

“I’m not exactly sure, but when she was poisoned, I was afraid he thought we were—you know, back together.”

“Were you?”

“No! God, no.”

“Have you told the police?”

“Told them what?” Farnsworth said, miming pulling her hair out.

“No. I think they suspect him already.”

“You can’t hide information from them—it just looks worse when the truth comes out.”

“When what comes out?” Farnsworth yelled. Erin covered the speaker.

“You won’t tell them, will you?” said Carolyn.

“No, but you have to tell them about you and Sylvia. They’re bound to find out.”

“I have to go. Owen just came in. Good-bye,” she said, ringing off before Erin could answer.

“All right,” Farnsworth said. “Now you have to tell me everything.”

“Before I do that, why didn’t you tell me about you and Sylvia?”

“What about us?”

“Don’t pretend, please. Just tell me the truth.”

Farnsworth stopped what she was doing and heaved a sigh. “Fine,” she said, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. “As far as I was concerned, it’s all water under the bridge.”

“Obviously it’s not, because you could barely stand her. And Pru said you used to be best friends.”

“Prudence tends toward the melodramatic,” she said, putting the full teapot on the table.

“It’s true, then—her knowing of your husband’s affair and not telling you?”

“It’s more complicated than that. She was friends with the girl’s family, and she told them, but she didn’t tell me.”

“Why not?”

“That’s what I’d like to know, pet.”

“Didn’t you ask her?”

“I never had the chance. He was run over by the lorry the day after they eloped to Dublin.”

“You could have asked her then.”

“It seemed like a moot point,” Farnsworth said, stirring the steaming pot. She poured out two cups and handed one to Erin. Seeing Erin’s expression, she said, “Don’t worry, pet—if I had wanted to kill Sylvia, I’d have done it back then.”

“I don’t know if I’m supposed to find that encouraging or not,” she said, but couldn’t help thinking of the phrase Revenge is a dish best served cold.

And, she mused, nothing was more cold-blooded than poison.