Chapter Forty-Seven

The trip to York was less than thirty miles and usually took about an hour. Erin stopped at a roadside pub for fish and chips along the way. She was tempted to indulge in a pint but feared even one drink might put her over the legal limit, so she had a lemonade instead. Feeling more tired than usual, maybe because of her injuries, she topped it off with a double espresso.

Fortified, she set off for the historic city of York. Erin had walked the medieval wall surrounding the city many times, but the sight of it never failed to thrill her. She longed to browse the bookshops along Micklegate Street, but she was on a mission and there wasn’t time. She could have bypassed downtown York entirely, since the university campus was built along a lake to the south of the city—technically the village of Heslington—but she wanted to see the city center.

As she drove through the narrow Micklegate Bar, the Normanesque tower looming over the street bearing its name, she gazed at the crosses carved out of the stone and imagined hordes of Normans rampaging a city that had already seen invasions by Romans and Danes. She took a slight detour to peer at her favorite spot in York, a medieval cobblestoned street known as The Shambles. It was a tourist draw, with its ancient timbered buildings, many of them in the old Tudor style. There didn’t seem to be a single right angle in any of the houses, their crooked second stories hanging over the street as if about to topple onto the paving stones at any minute.

Continuing on, she reached Heslington, an attractive village of red brick buildings just south of the city. The history department was located on the larger western campus—Antonia Morelli’s office was in a nondescript brick building opposite the cozy thatched cottage known as The Warren. Erin pulled into the public car park and checked her notes. According to the history department secretary, Professor Morelli’s office hours were Mondays through Thursday from twelve to four PM, and it was just a few minutes before two, so hopefully she would be in. By showing up unannounced, Erin would catch Morelli off guard, hopefully giving her an advantage.

After walking up the flight of stairs to the faculty offices, Erin found Morelli’s at the end of a bright corridor, the polished tile floor reflecting the sun streaming in through the ceiling skylights. Shielding her eyes, she read the placard on the door.

Angela Morelli

Medieval Studies

OFFICE HOURS 12–4 M/W

Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door.

“Who is it, please?”

It was the same voice she had heard on the phone, low and liquid, with a pronounced Italian accent.

“Hi—I’m here about Professor Pemberthy.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No.”

“Just a minute.”

Erin thought she heard Morelli talking to someone—it sounded like she was on the phone. High heels clicked against the floor, and the door opened to reveal a slim, dark-haired woman of about forty. Her face was long and leonine, with prominent lips, dark almond eyes, and a long, sweeping nose. She looked like the frieze of an Egyptian princess come to life.

“Professor Morelli? I’m Erin Coleridge.”

“How can I help you?” she asked warily.

“May I come in?”

“I have a three o’clock meeting.”

“This won’t take long.”

Without a word, Morelli walked back into her office, leaving the door open. Taking it as an invitation, Erin followed her inside. The office was sparsely but tastefully decorated—across from the narrow windows with latticed cross-hatching was a bookshelf containing history texts and Italian pottery. A creamy floral area rug with twining green vines sprouting tiny flowers covered the center of the small room; at one end was a small rust-colored sofa, and at the other end, Morelli’s desk. Erin wondered how much of the decor was furnished by the college and how much was Morelli’s.

The room gave the impression of a very organized, controlled person, reinforced by the woman herself. Dressed in a short gray dress, heels, and a crimson jacket, she was elegance personified. Her straight dark hair was pulled into a tight knot at the base of her long neck, her olive skin shone with moisturizer, and her understated makeup was perfectly applied, down to the coral-red lipstick. Erin was amazed by women who wore lipstick on a regular basis—on the few occasions she’d thought to apply it, it had seemed to rub off within minutes.

“What can I do for you?” Morelli said, sitting behind her desk and crossing her black stocking–clad legs. “Please, sit,” she added, pointing to the crimson sofa.

“I understand you know Professor Pemberthy,” Erin said after sinking onto the couch, which was lower than it looked, the springs creaking under her weight.

“He’s my colleague, yes.”

“I live in the same town as he and his wife.”

“Poor woman—so tragic. We all feel terrible about it.” Her manner suggested nothing of the kind; her voice carried all the emotion of someone reading a recipe for raisin scones. “What has that to do with me?”

“Actually, he’s a suspect in his wife’s murder—”

“Ridiculous. Jerome wouldn’t harm a fly,” she said, flinging her hand in the air as if chasing away the pesky insect.

“He seems to have vanished, which makes the police think he’s guilty.”

“Ha!” she said with disgust. “British detectives are even more stupid than Italian polizia.”

“Can you help me find him?”

“I spoke with him on the phone just before you came in.”

“Where is he?”

“How should I know?”

“Do you know whether he had life insurance on his wife?”

“Why would I know that?”

“Because you’re his mistress.”

Morelli’s face hardened; then she laughed. “How quaint—mistress. Do you British really use that anymore?”

“What word would you use?”

She shrugged. “I’m his lover. Or at least I was. He’s been distant since his wife’s death.”

“Do you think he did it?”

Morelli leaned back in her chair and crossed her thin arms. “Why should I answer any more of your questions?”

“If you don’t, you may find yourself talking to a police detective instead.”

“Are you working with them?”

“Yes,” Erin lied. “I’m their civilian liaison.” Being somewhat familiar with the complex, arcane elements of Italian law enforcement, she thought she might get away with such an outrageous claim.

Professor Morelli frowned. “What’s that?”

“Shall I just pick up the phone and tell them you won’t cooperate?”

“No—wait,” she said, biting her lip. “Yes, he had an insurance policy on her, through the university.”

“Do you know for what amount?”

“I got the impression it was substantial. But he didn’t kill his wife.”

“Do you know that for a fact?”

“I just don’t believe Jerome is capable of such barbarism.”

“Thank you, Professor Morelli—I appreciate your cooperation,” Erin said, rising from the couch. “Oh, one more thing—do you know Carolyn Hardacker? She used to teach in the art department.”

Morelli took out an emery board and filed the tip of one of her perfect nails. “Hardacker … is she a very pretty black woman?”

“Yes.”

“I went to one of her openings. Very talented artist.”

“Do you know why she left the university?”

“There were rumors it had to do with substance abuse. But please, don’t quote me on that.”

“I—we won’t,” Erin said. Walking the short distance to the door, she opened it to find Jerome Pemberthy standing there.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, scowling.

Erin’s first impulse was to run. The fury in his eyes made her knees go weak, and she wasn’t sure she could run even if she wanted to.

“I was just passing through,” she said, but she could see that explanation wasn’t going to fly. She began to back away slowly, but he seized her by the arm and pulled her inside, shutting the office door behind them.