“Teresa was always super careful when it came to her allergy. That’s why she always carried two EpiPens.” Fiona stood beside Jonathon, a glass in her hand.
Graham frowned. “And how do you know all this?”
Fiona shrugged. “Teresa gave a lot of interviews. It’s well-documented. She always talked about stuff like this.”
“Professor, will there be a postmortem?” Jonathon asked. “Once her allergy is confirmed, I mean.”
Professor Harcourt nodded. “There’s been a register of deaths by anaphylaxis here in the UK since 1992. Not that many deaths, to be honest—maybe around twenty a year.”
“So yes, there’ll be an autopsy.” Graham closed his notebook. “Let’s wait and see what it comes up with.” He got to his feet. “I think I’ve got all I need for now. Thank you, Professor. Are you going to be in the village for a while?”
“Seeing as I’m speaking at the festival, I’d say that’s affirmative. If you need me to stay after the weekend, that can be arranged.”
Heather appeared, looking flustered. “Tell me it’s not true. Tell me she’s not dead.” She wore a long overcoat, under which were pajamas.
Jonathon’s expression was glum. “I take it you’ve heard.”
“I got a call from Phil McCallister. She really is dead?”
Mike got up and put his arms about her. “Sorry, Heather. I know you wanted everything to go smoothly.” She leaned into him, her face downcast.
“Who’s Phil McCallister?” Graham demanded.
“An author attending the festival,” Jonathon explained. “He’s—” He glanced around, frowning. “He was here. Along with another writer, Melody Richards. When did they leave?”
Mike shrugged. “No clue. I didn’t see them go, but then I did have my mind on other more urgent issues.”
“Hmm.” Graham made a note. “I’ll need to speak to them.”
“Maybe I should cancel the whole thing,” Heather murmured, still leaning against Mike.
“Don’t do that,” Jonathon urged her. “Play it by ear. You have all these readers who’ve come here just for the festival. Not to mention the authors. Make an announcement when you open the festival in the morning. But don’t be surprised if the national news picks up on the story.”
“Which is all publicity, right?” Mike tightened his arm around her. “I agree with Jonathon. Don’t do anything tonight.”
“Okay.” She rubbed her eyes. “In that case, I’m going back to bed. See you all in the morning.”
“I’ll go out with you.” Graham replaced his helmet, shoved his notepad and pen back into his pocket, and accompanied Heather to the door.
Mike took another drink from his brandy. Please, God, let it be an accidental death.
He hoped the Almighty was listening.
GRAHAM’S DEPARTURE appeared to be a signal for everyone to go to the bar, including Mike.
Jonathon chuckled. “And he thought running a country pub would be a quiet life after the Met.”
“I still can’t believe she’s dead.” Professor Harcourt stared into his brandy.
“You and me both,” Fiona added. She gave Jonathon a wry smile. “I’m now the organizer of a fan club whose raison d’être has just disappeared.”
“Did you know Teresa well, Professor?” Jonathon inquired.
“Barely. Even if we did both live in Merrychurch at some point, although not at the same time.”
Jonathon gaped. “You lived here? When?”
“I was the village GP from 1985 until 1989. Teresa arrived after that. Not sure when, exactly.” He gave Fiona a sideways glance. “You probably know when, though. You certainly know everything else about her.”
Jonathon frowned. “But at dinner Teresa said it was nice to see you again.”
Professor Harcourt took another sip of brandy before continuing. “We did meet once, Teresa and I. A police officer recommended that she meet with me to discuss research she was doing for a book.”
“What did she want to know?” Jonathon tilted his head to one side.
“What every author wants to know when they talk to a pathologist. ‘Tell me there’s an undetectable, untraceable poison out there that no one’s ever used before.’”
“And is there?” Fiona’s eyes sparkled.
Professor Harcourt laughed softly. “If there is, it hasn’t reached my ears yet—or my autopsy table.” He glanced around the pub and shivered. “I didn’t like the atmosphere tonight. At the dinner and in here.”
“What do you mean?” Except Jonathon already had an idea of what was coming.
“It felt like there was a lot of malice in the air, if that doesn’t sound too melodramatic, given the present circumstances.”
Fiona huffed. “That’s not really surprising. Teresa didn’t gain herself a lot of friends while she lived here. And by the sound of it, she didn’t improve once she’d left Merrychurch.”
Professor Harcourt stared at her. “I see.”
Fiona took a large drink from her wineglass. “I may be the organizer of her fan club, but even I have to admit she had her moments.” Then she, too, shivered. “Okay, that’s enough. One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, right?” She finished her wine. “I’m going to call it a night. Will I see you both at the festival tomorrow?” When both Jonathon and Professor Harcourt nodded, she smiled. “Good. Then I’ll say good night.” And with that, she got up and walked to the door, pausing to greet a few people on her way.
“I should get going too.” Professor Harcourt finished his brandy. “Please say good night to Mike for me?”
Jonathon nodded. “Do you want me to see you to your B and B?” He stood up, then collected the empty glasses.
“Oh no, I can manage. Besides, I need to read over my notes for my session.”
Jonathon was burning with curiosity. “What’s your topic? Oh—wait. I know. Heather said you’re talking about autopsies.”
Professor Harcourt beamed. “That’s right! And I’m also going to point out that the crime dramas everyone is so fond of—CSI, et cetera—are not the gospel when it comes to forensic procedure.”
“I look forward to hearing you.” Jonathon had a feeling Mike would enjoy that one. He bade Professor Harcourt good night, then rejoined Mike at the bar, where the pub’s patrons appeared to have rediscovered their thirst.
Jonathon couldn’t wait until it was closing time. He wanted to get Mike on his own and hear his thoughts on the evening’s events.
Another death in Merrychurch. At least it’s not a murder this time.
Chapter Six
JONATHON WALKED slowly up the stairs, feeling weary. The night had taken its toll, and he was bone-tired. Below, he could hear Mike locking the door. When Jonathon reached the landing, he gazed at the closed door of the guest room. On impulse, he crossed the floor and opened it.
The room was a chaotic mess. Teresa’s suitcase lay open on the floor beside the bed, its contents strewn over the rug, no doubt the result of Professor Harcourt searching frantically for the spare EpiPen. On the bed lay Teresa’s capacious bag, its contents disgorged due to another search. It took Jonathon a moment to realize something was missing.