Pride prejudice and pois.., p.1
Pride, Prejudice and Poison, page 1
Pride, Prejudice & Poison
A Jane Austen Society Mystery
ELIZABETH BLAKE
For Rachel Fallon, a true friend indeed
Acknowledgments
Thanks to my awesome agent, Paige Wheeler, as always. Deepest gratitude to Terri Bischoff and Jenny Chen, for their superb editorial advice, patience, and unwavering support.
Thanks to Anthony Moore, for introducing me to the wonders of the Yorkshire Moors, always sharing my passion and sense of adventure; and to the staff of the Lion Inn, Blakey Ridge, for an unforgettable night, splendid meal, and wonderful gift of A Coast to Coast Walk by Alfred Wainwright. Deepest thanks to Alan Macquarie, scholar, musician, and historian, for being such a gracious host in his glorious Glasgow flat, and to Anne Clackson, for being such a boon (and bonny) companion. Special thanks to my dear friend Rachel Fallon for her generosity and loyal spirit. And a big shout-out to the baristas at Gatehouse Coffee in historic York, the most glorious coffeehouse I have had the pleasure of visiting.
Thanks to Hawthornden Castle for awarding me a Fellowship—my time there was unforgettable—and to Byrdcliffe Colony in Woodstock, where I enjoyed many happy years of residency, as well as to the Animal Care Sanctuary in East Smithfield, Pennsylvania, Craig Lukatch and the fabulous Lacawac Sanctuary, where so much of this was written. I can’t wait to return!
Special thanks to my dear friend and colleague Marvin Kaye for his continued support, and for all the many wonderful dinners at Keens. Thanks to my assistant, Frank Goad, for his intelligence and expertise. Thanks too to my good friend Ahmad Ali, whose support and good energy has always lifted my spirits, and to the Stone Ridge Library, my upstate writing home away from home.
Finally, special thanks to my parents—raconteurs, performers, and musicians—who taught me the importance of art and the power of a good story.
Chapter One
“‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single woman in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a husband,’” whispered Farnsworth Appleby.
“Shh!” said Erin Coleridge, stifling a laugh. She and her friend Farnsworth were sitting in the back row of All Souls’ drafty church basement late on a chilly Sunday morning in October, waiting for the meeting of the Events Committee of the Northern Branch of the Jane Austen Society. The church service had ended twenty minutes earlier, and Erin could hear the last of the parishioners upstairs shuffling out of All Souls.
Most of the half dozen or so committee members had arrived—the only one missing was local schoolmaster Jonathan Alder, whose absence had occasioned Farnsworth’s remark. Romantically dashing, with ruddy cheeks, creamy skin, and a mass of dark curls, his recent arrival in town had excited much speculation. Several members of the society had taken to calling him Mr. Bingley behind his back. He was too friendly and eager to please to be a natural Mr. Darcy, but Bingley suited him perfectly.
He made the most of his charms by flirting just enough with the damsels of Kirkbymoorside to keep their hearts fluttering a little faster when he was near. Farnsworth enjoyed baiting Erin about him, and though certainly not immune to his charms, Erin treated him with detached courtesy in public, just to spite her friend.
“I don’t see why you’re being so coy about it,” Farnsworth said. “He is eligible, and you—”
“I certainly don’t have a fortune,” Erin whispered back, “and I’m not in want of a husband.”
“Well, you have a bookstore,” her friend sniffed, sipping tea from the thermos she always carried.
Farnsworth Appleby was the town’s Tragic Widow. Technically, she was an abandoned wife, since her husband had absconded with their savings along with the George and Dragon’s Irish barmaid. But divine justice was swift and brutal—he had been run over by a Dublin lorry shortly afterward, and Farnsworth had been able to recover the money, if not her dignity.
From that day on, she’d taken in stray cats and had been referred to universally as “poor Farnsworth.” Erin liked her and found her eccentricities charming. She also made the best cup of coffee in the village, maybe in all North Yorkshire. Erin knew her Tragic Widow pose was simply an act to put off people she didn’t like. In reality, Farnsworth had healthy self-esteem and a wicked wit.
Farnsworth sipped delicately at her tea. “A bookstore may not be a fortune, but—”
“I think you fancy him yourself.”
Farnsworth laughed, but color rose to her plump cheeks. “Don’t be absurd!”
“Here he comes—behave yourself,” said Erin as Jonathan Alder entered the room with ladies of varying ages and body types. All eyes turned toward him, and a blush crept across his already rosy face.
“I’m frightfully sorry,” he said. His accent was rather posh, decidedly not North Yorkshire. “I got held up at school, and—”
“Please don’t waste more of our time than you already have with a lengthy explanation,” declared Sylvia Pemberthy from her chair in the front row as Jonathan took his place at the podium. The current society president, she was a stickler for punctuality, and no doubt jealous of Jonathan’s popularity. He had been unanimously elected Events Committee chairman, whereas her own position as society president was tenuous. As usual, Sylvia wore a ridiculous hat, a nest of peacock feathers poking from the brim like tiny swords.
It was well known Sylvia liked things to run smoothly—a vain hope, given the recent folderol in the society’s Northern Branch. What had begun as a disagreement over protocol had spiraled into a vicious orgy of recrimination and backbiting, splitting into two camps, each representing a different philosophy of how the group should be run.
“Lady de Bourgh has spoken,” Farnsworth whispered. Erin gave her a poke in the ribs. Sylvia Pemberthy was one of the wealthiest people in Kirkbymoorside, the picturesque village nestled along the southern border of the North York Moors National Park—and lately, one of the most unpopular. Farnsworth had a point—Sylvia’s imperious nature was reminiscent of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, so perhaps she was not the best person to smooth ruffled feathers.
As the society had splintered into factions, the atmosphere had become more fraught with each meeting. Old rivalries were coming to a head at a time when decisions needed to be made about the branch’s future. Erin noticed the conspicuous absence of Sylvia’s husband Jerome, an aloof history teacher at University of York. Rumors had been swirling for weeks that theirs was a troubled marriage.
“Now then,” Sylvia said, the pompous peacock feathers on her hat bouncing up and down as she spoke, “if everyone would just settle down, we could begin.”
“You’d think she was running this meeting,” Farnsworth whispered to Erin, who gave her friend a poke.
“Shh!”
Sylvia’s ascent to power was as contentious as her reign had become. She had a knack for making enemies, but Erin thought anyone in her position would have drawn fire from the membership. As branch president, Sylvia represented the Old Guard—conservative, mostly moneyed members who liked to dot their i’s and cross their t’s. The so-called Modernists felt the Old Guard were hopelessly mired in rules and protocol, but it was deeper than that. It was a matter of world view—the Old Guard were the same people who had voted for Brexit. Feelings around the British exit from the European Union were high, and what had begun as a local squall had turned into a typhoon.
“You have to start a bloody petition round here just to go to the loo,” Farnsworth muttered, shifting her heavy body in the narrow metal folding chair.
“Quiet, please,” Sylvia hissed. “If the chairperson could get organized, we could get this meeting started,” she said, coldly eyeing Jonathan Alder as he pulled some notes from a battered leather briefcase.
“He’s only a few minutes late,” Erin pointed out.
Sylvia exploded. “That’s it! I will not stand for insubordination in the society! And you can either attend meetings on time or not at all!” she added, glaring at Jonathan.
“Have you ever listened to yourself?” said Farnsworth. “You sound like a bloody harridan.”
“You should talk,” Sylvia snapped. “Everyone in town knows you’re utterly pathetic!”
Erin’s forehead burned with anger at Sylvia’s treatment of her friend. She opened her mouth to give Sylvia a piece of her mind but was interrupted by Prudence Pettibone.
“‘Those who do not complain are never pitied,’” Prudence proclaimed in her nasal voice. The lugubrious society treasurer, Prudence was known for interjecting Jane Austen quotes into the conversation whenever possible—often at the least opportune moment.
Sylvia wheeled around to face her. “I’ll thank you to keep your thoughts to yourself!” she sputtered, sending droplets of saliva into the air, some of which landed on Pru’s face.
Prudence Pettibone was a small, ungainly woman—with her dull brown hair and rumpled, ill-fitting clothing, she could pass for a vagrant. Erin winced at seeing her suffer the indignity of being pelted by Sylvia’s flying spittle.
“You can’t just treat people like—” Erin began, but was preempted by the Very Honorable Reverend Motley, a portly, unctuous man and All Souls’ longtime minister. Having entered the room moments before, he interrupted Erin midsentence.
“‘It isn’t what we say or think that defines us, but what we do,’” he opined in his plummy, sententious voice, locking his thumbs together in front of his black cassock. He wore it long, in the manner of the lead actor in the popular television series Father Brown, wit
Not even Sylvia dared take him on—the society met in All Souls’ capacious community hall solely through his beneficence, and challenging Father Motley would risk their losing a convenient—and free—meeting place.
“Of course,” he continued, casting his beady eyes around the room, “those of you who attended this morning’s service found it a bit easier to be on time, eh?”
Farnsworth rolled her eyes, and Erin gave her another poke in the ribs.
Sylvia straightened her hat and gave a little cough. “Well said, Reverend. Well said indeed.”
“I don’t see what one’s religious faith has to do with punctuality,” Farnsworth declared.
Small beads of sweat broke out on the reverend’s forehead. “I merely suggested that had one chanced to come to the morning service, punctuality would not be an issue.”
“It was perfectly clear what you meant,” said Sylvia, glaring daggers at Farnsworth. “Some people take issue with everything.”
Erin sighed and looked at her watch—it was past noon, and the meeting hadn’t properly started yet.
Making his way to the podium, Jonathan Alder gave a decorous cough. “Right,” he said. “Shall we discuss the question of raising membership dues?”
Owen Hardacker snorted. “I say do away wi’em altogether.” Lean and stern, with a face like the weathered side of a barn, Owen was a wealthy farmer and owner of the largest sheep herd in the district and could trace his family back to before William the Conqueror. In spite of his money, Owen’s sympathies were strictly working class. As a leader of the Modernists, he stubbornly maintained his thick Yorkshire accent, perhaps as a way of separating himself from Old Guard people like Sylvia. Erin liked Owen, with his hardscrabble manners and brusque ways, whereas people like Sylvia were a reminder of why she had left Oxfordshire.
“We can’t just eliminate dues altogether,” said Kurt Becker, the local baker. His store, Fresh and Hot, was popular, but he was not. With his rigid posture and Prussian accent, Kurt Becker had always struck Erin as a clichéd German right out of a war movie. His square jaw and straight blond hair only added to the image, as did his wife Suzanne, with her tightly wound personality and whippet-thin body. Erin wondered where Suzanne was. It was Sunday, so their bakery was closed.
“Ye would take her point o’ view,” Owen Hardacker muttered.
Becker bristled. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Could we please get back to business?” Sylvia snapped.
“No, I demand to know what you meant by that!” Kurt Becker insisted, rising from his chair. He looked as if he wanted to slug Owen Hardacker.
“Settle down, please!” Jonathan pleaded, but it was clear he had lost control of the meeting before it had even started.
Hardacker leapt from his chair. “No bloody Kraut is goin’ t’tell me what t’do!”
“Please,” Jonathan implored. “If we could just—”
Kurt Becker rose from his chair. “I do not appreciate being insulted!”
“‘One man’s style must not be the rule of another’s,’” said Reverend Motley, inclining his head to peer at the baker. “There’s no need to be childish.”
Becker threw him a glance of pure malevolence. “I am not the one being childish,” he said tightly, and strode from the room without looking back.
Sylvia turned to Owen Hardacker. “Well,” she said with a sneer, “I hope you’re happy.”
“Get stuffed,” Hardacker said, shoving his battered tweed cap onto his head. “This society is goin’ t’hell in a handbasket!” he declared, and stalked out of the room.
Erin looked at Jonathan, whose face bore an expression of shocked amazement.
“The general meeting is in two days,” Erin said. “Why don’t we discuss it then, when everyone has cooled down a bit?”
“Good idea!” Farnsworth agreed heartily.
“I second the motion,” Prudence Pettibone chirped.
In the end, even the reverend agreed that things had gotten too heated, and the meeting was disbanded. As Erin got into her car, she wondered what Jane Austen herself would have thought of such indecorous behavior. She could not know then that there was far worse to come.
Chapter Two
Erin Coleridge shivered as she stepped outside the door of her used bookstore, the Readers Quarry, to take down the OPEN sign. After the brouhaha of the meeting, she had spent the rest of the quiet Sunday afternoon in her shop. Only two people had stopped by, but she had made quite a few online sales, which was how she made most of her money. Twilight was fast approaching—night fell earlier now that they had slipped into October. It was only two weeks until the annual Halloween fete and bonfire, after which visits from tourists slowed to a trickle. But during the fete, the town’s population could swell from three thousand to over five thousand as people from all over Yorkshire and beyond were drawn to the weekend-long celebration beginning with an enormous bonfire in the town square.
Erin lugged the heavy wooden sign into the stone cottage serving as her store and living quarters, propping it up behind the thick oak door, which she locked and double-bolted. There was little crime in Kirkbymoorside, but Erin had learned caution from her cleric father, if not from her rather wilder mother, whose sense of abandon and joie de vivre she admired but had never quite managed to emulate. Crime was one of Erin’s hobbies—she had an extensive forensic library—so she was keenly aware of what could happen to a woman living alone, even in a safe little market town like Kirkbymoorside.
Passing through the store into the rear of the first floor, Erin entered her small but well-appointed kitchen, with its gleaming copper kettles and colorful omelet pans. A creature of quieter comforts, surrounded by well-worn and deeply cherished used books, Erin was rarely ecstatic like her mother, but largely content. Her father was enjoying the robust health of the virtuous, though her mother was dead and buried, taken in her midforties by a quickly ravaging cancer fed by the fire of her forceful personality. It seemed to Erin that vivid people often died young, leaving more timid souls in their wake. Her mother had blazed and burned, like a thirsty star.
Erin had bought the historic cottage upon her arrival in town two years ago. Like so many villages in the north of England, Kirkbymoorside wore its heritage with pride and a touch of defensiveness, as if ready to respond to any challenge to its authenticity—though it was hard to imagine anyone could miss the history seeping from its weathered stone buildings and narrow, winding streets. It was this sense of the past that had drawn her to the town when the loss of her mother had left her with a desperate need to flee Oxford.
Though the radiators were turned up full, a chill wind blew in through the cracks in the ancient masonry, and Erin shivered as she examined the freezer to find something for dinner. She kept a good store of entrées from the local Sainsbury’s for nights like this, when she didn’t feel like cooking.
Pulling a package of chicken tikka masala and basmati rice from the freezer, Erin left it on the shelf and put on a CD of the French composer Josquin des Prez. Though many of her friends were in the iPod world, Erin found it all too fussy and couldn’t be bothered. Like her father, she had a tendency to stick to the tried and true.
She shivered with pleasure as the lush harmonies filled the room, the vocal lines twisting around one another like meandering streams. Erin had recently fallen in love with early music, especially vocal music of the Renaissance. Farnsworth had been urging her to join the choir at All Souls, and she was seriously considering it.
She had spent half the day on the phone, comforting, cajoling, and soothing injured pride, reassuring everyone that it would be all right. First Prudence had called, then Pru’s best friend, Hetty Miller.
“How does she get off treating people like that?” Hetty had said. “Prudence told me the way Sylvia spoke to her!”
“She wasn’t very nice to Farnsworth either,” Erin pointed out. “And it was definitely a mistake to take on Owen Hardacker.”
“The cheek of her! Thinks she’s so high and mighty. Well, let me tell you, she’s no better than she ought to be!”
