Chapter Seven

“Cheer up, Sergeant—we only have another hundred or so witnesses to interview,” Detective Hemming remarked as Jarral closed the passenger side door gingerly, afraid something might fall off if he slammed it. Hemming’s old Citroën was, to put it kindly, “distressed”; put bluntly, it was a wreck. Or so it appeared to Jarral, who liked things shiny and modern and new. He didn’t understand the English obsession with old things—his family’s exodus from Lahore had been a struggle for reinvention, a letting go of the past that had evolved into a dislike of anything representing archaic values.

As the oldest son, Rashid Jarral had absorbed his parents’ obsession with progress and modernity. He always had the latest-model smartphone, the hottest apps; his Twitter account had more followers than his teenage cousins’.

He looked at the society membership list. Hemming was exaggerating, but it did contain a lot of names. “Apparently there were a few nonmembers present as well—come to watch the fireworks, I expect,” Jarral remarked.

“They got more than they bargained for,” Hemming said as they passed flocks of sheep and the occasional stone cottage. The sun was playing hide-and-seek behind a line of fluffy nimbus clouds, gray underneath, suggesting the possibility of rain. “Who’s next on the list?”

“Erin Coleridge, Twenty-Two Swanson Lane,” he said, entering the address on Google Maps.

“Ah, yes, our would-be sleuth,” said Hemming. “Let’s see what she has to say.”

“Turn just up here at the sign, sir,” he said, pointing to a wooden sign with BOOKSTORE in large block letters, followed by an arrow pointing down the lane.

They swung onto Swanson Lane, past a crumbling brick wall once belonging to an old estate, now long gone, only the remains of the wall still left. The old car rattled over potholes in the narrow dirt road, which came to a dead end in a quarter mile or so. At the end of the lane sat a solitary stone cottage; as they pulled closer, Jarral saw a wooden sign on the front lawn.

Readers Quarry

Books, Old and New

Hours: 10–5 Thursday–Sunday

Or by Appointment

“Here it is,” he said, tucking his phone into his coat pocket. Detective Hemming wasn’t as much a fan of technology as he was. Even though Hemming relied on the sergeant’s use of GPS, Jarral had the feeling he would be much happier studying a road map spread out on the hood of his car.

“Right,” Hemming said, turning off the engine. “Let’s see what Erin Coleridge has to say for herself, shall we?”

“Yes, sir,” Rashid answered, unfolding his body from the cramped Citroën. The cigar-shaped car rode very low to the ground, and it was awkward to pull himself out of the seat. It was very different from his own late-model SUV, which was much better suited to his long legs.

He followed Hemming up the little brick path to the cottage, past a cheerful flower garden to one side and a patio on the other. A silver wind chime hanging from the eaves tinkled gently in the breeze. The mood was so peaceful and serene, Jarral had trouble imagining a murderer could live within these walls.

Their knock on the heavy oak door was met with a cheerful “Just a minute!”—followed by light, quick steps descending a staircase. The door was opened by the same striking young woman they had met at breakfast. She was a study in pastels, with light-blue eyes, white skin, and blonde-red hair, emphasized by her black turtleneck sweater and olive-green tights. Her skin was pale as swan feathers, with a downy sheen that made Rashid’s own olive skin, which he was normally proud of, seem coarse by comparison. The same eyeglasses with thick black frames accentuated the lightness of her eyes, with their blonde lashes.

“Hello again,” she said in a friendly, unaffected manner. “Please come in.”

After introductions, she led them through a one-room bookstore into a tidy and well-appointed living room, and Rashid couldn’t help thinking that if she was the killer, she was doing a good job of throwing them off the scent. The room was furnished in warm earth tones, terra-cotta walls with tasteful landscape paintings. He didn’t have the eye to know if they were originals or reproductions, but they added to the general atmosphere of refined taste.

A richly patterned green Persian carpet dominated the center of the room, with a comfortable sofa at one end and a caramel-brown leather chair with matching footstool facing it, worn at the armrests. Books lined the walls on two sides; the front wall was lined with latticed windows, and he could see a door leading to a sunny kitchen in the back of the room. A baby grand piano nestled against the far bookcase.

“Please, sit down,” she said. “Would you like some tea?”

“No, th—” he began, but Hemming interrupted.

“Yes, thank you. Can I give you a hand?”

“I’ll be fine, thanks,” she said, swaying gracefully through the low door leading to the kitchen.

When she had gone, Hemming strolled around the room, stopping to look at this and that in a seemingly casual manner, but Jarral suspected he missed little. He wondered if Hemming was looking for something in particular, yearning to know what was going on in the detective’s head, but instinct told him not to interrupt. This was their first case together, and the sergeant wanted to make a good impression.

“Here we are,” Erin said, bringing in a tea tray loaded with cakes, pastries, and a large blue china pot. She smiled at his surprised look. “People come here not only for books.”

“Very good of you,” Jarral remarked.

“It’s good business. The longer they stay, the more they browse.”

“I noticed you have quite a collection of crime books,” Hemming said.

“Ever since I read In Cold Blood, I’ve been fascinated by true crime.” She looked away, and Jarral had the feeling there was more to the story.

“You said earlier people were talking about us,” he said. “Who exactly—”

“Oh, everyone. It’s not every day such excitement comes to our sleepy little market town.”

“I believe you were present when Mrs. Pemberthy was—”

“Yes, I was at the meeting with everyone else. We were on tea break, and I was talking with Hetty Miller and Pru—Prudence—Pettibone. There was a scream, and Suzanne Becker staggered into the room saying Sylvia was dead.”

“Do you remember her exact words?”

“I believe she said, ‘Help, somebody please help.’ Then, ‘It’s Sylvia—she’s dead.’”

“You have a good memory, do you, Ms. Coleridge?”

“My aural recollection is better than my visual. I’m not great with faces—not a good quality in a shop owner, I’m afraid.”

“Do you have any idea who might want to harm Mrs. Pemberthy?” Rashid asked as she handed them each a steaming cup of tea. “Apart from her husband, that is.”

“Take your pick. She wasn’t the most popular president in society history.”

“Why not?”

“Let me put it this way. If she were a Jane Austen character, she would be Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”

“Snobbish, standoffish, thinks she’s better than everyone else?” said Hemming.

“Exactly. Though Sylvia was hardly nobility—her ancestors were peat farmers. Still, she was quite wealthy.”

“‘It is very difficult for the prosperous to be humble.’”

Erin clapped her hands. “I love that quote! So you like Jane Austen?”

“It would be unpatriotic not to.”

“Mind you, I liked Sylvia—she could be gracious and charming. But I could see how she made enemies.”

“I hear there was talk of a coup,” said Jarral.

“Society politics was always a bit rough-edged, but things heated up after …”

“After what?”

“The former president is a local landowner named Owen Hardacker, and he ran things with a pretty loose hand. Not a lot of rules or regulations, and I guess some people felt it was just too slipshod. There were fewer and fewer meetings, and some people didn’t bother to turn up at all. Membership was declining, and some people blamed Owen.”

Hemming leaned forward. “And what did you think?”

“I arrived here less than two years ago.”

“Yet I hear you’re popular.”

She blushed, twin patches of red staining her pale cheeks.

“‘Everyone comes to Erin’s,’ or words to that effect,” he added.

She laughed, a tinkling sound like wind chimes. “Who said that?”

“Mrs. Appleby.”

“I’m glad someone in town thinks I’m popular.”

“Surely she’s not the only one?” said Jarral.

“People in Yorkshire don’t always welcome interlopers with open arms,” she said, refilling their cups. “But once you’re accepted, you have to do something pretty horrible to make people turn their backs on you.”

“Murder, for example?” said Hemming.

The bell attached to the front door of the shop jingled, and Erin rose from her chair. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”

She went through the bead curtain to the front room, and Rashid was mesmerized for a moment by the gentle sway of the curtain and the faint rattle of beads. He heard Erin greet someone—he couldn’t make out the words, but he got the impression it was someone she knew. A man, judging by the voice. There was a brief conversation, too low for him to make out; then Erin said, “I’ll let you know the minute it comes in.”

The man thanked her and left, the bell jingling as the door closed behind him. Erin reappeared moments later through the curtain.

“Sorry about that—a customer checking to see if a book had come in.”

“Mind if I ask who?”

“Jonathan Alder. He teaches at the middle school.”

Jarral set down his teacup. “Why didn’t he just phone, I wonder?”

“You’d have to ask him,” she said, and blushed again, crimson spreading upward from the base of her neck. Rashid heard the wind picking up outside, whistling in the ancient eaves. This time of year storms came and went in the North Country, quick as rabbits.

“And you, Ms. Coleridge?” Hemming said, reaching for a hot cross bun. “What did you think of Sylvia Pemberthy’s handling of the society?”

“‘If things are going untowardly one month, they are sure to mend the next.’”

“You’re rather adept at quoting Austen yourself, it seems.” Detective Hemming set down his teacup and leaned forward. “Can you recall anyone acting strangely at the meeting?”

“I didn’t see anyone slip something into her tea, if that’s what you mean.”

“Did she put her teacup down at any point that you noticed?”

“I wasn’t really paying attention. As I said, I was chatting with Hetty and Pru.”

“Oh, yes, you did mention that,” Hemming said, as though he had just remembered. Rashid had heard colleagues say the detective’s memory was nearly flawless, so why the pretense? Was it to get her to relax her guard, maybe make a slip of some kind?

“Your friend Ms. Appleby said she left her tea on a chair where anyone could have slipped something into it. Rather convenient claim, considering she was on the tea committee that night and admitted to handing Mrs. Pemberthy her tea.”

Erin’s face darkened. “You’ve got the wrong end of the stick, Detective. Farnsworth would never—”

“Did she get on well with Mrs. Pemberthy, then?”

“No one ‘got on well’ with Sylvia Pemberthy.”

“Do you happen to know whether Ms. Pemberthy took sugar in her tea?”

“No, but I know why you’re asking. The sugar would hide any bitterness from the poison. And arsenic is a white powder that could easily masquerade as sugar.”

Hemming’s eyes narrowed. “And how exactly did you know it was arsenic?”

“I saw the body, Detective.”

“And—?”

“It was obviously a fast-acting poison, but there was no grotesque positioning of the limbs suggesting the involuntary muscle contractions typical of strychnine,” she said, as if reciting from a textbook. “I considered cyanide, but that’s considerably more difficult to obtain than arsenic, which—as I said—is a common ingredient in rat poison. So the odds were on arsenic.”

“You seem to know quite a lot about poison.”

“I told you, crime is a hobby of mine.”

“So you did.”

“And before you ask, I don’t have any rat poison in the house—though of course you’re welcome to look for yourself.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“As I said earlier, if I were you, I’d look at her husband. He’s a first-class wanker.”

“I’ll keep that mind.”

To Jarral’s relief, Hemming folded his notebook and slipped it into his pocket, an indication the interview was over.

“Thank you for your time,” he said, “and for the tea.”

She rose and stretched her lithe, somewhat boyish figure. “I wish I could be more helpful.”

“You’ve been more helpful than you know,” he said, and Rashid wondered if he meant to put her off balance by suggesting she had given herself away. Hemming handed her a business card. “Call me anytime if something else occurs to you. By the way, how did you know where to find us this morning?”

“News travels fast in this town,” she said, piling the tea things onto a tray.

“I’ll remember that. Good day, Ms. Coleridge.”

When they were back in the car, Jarral turned to him as they fastened their safety belts. “Surely you can eliminate her from the suspect list?”

“Can I?”

“You don’t think she—”

“Everyone in that room theoretically had means and opportunity. And judging by what everyone says, multiple people may have had motive.”

“But—”

“It wouldn’t be the first time a fair face has served as a mask for dark deeds.”

Irritated, Rashid stared out the window at the dun-colored fields as they headed back toward town. He found Hemming’s faux Shakespearean pronouncement condescending, and no matter what the detective said, he couldn’t imagine lovely, lithesome Erin Coleridge poisoning anybody.