Praise for the Novels of Simone St. James
An Inquiry into Love and Death
“I thoroughly enjoyed it! I do like a good ghost story, and Simone clearly relishes and is steeped in the traditions of gothic fiction—in the best way. She conjures that secretive, hushed atmosphere perfectly, and the story kept me turning the pages from beginning to end. At once an intriguing mystery and an eerie ghost story, it had more than enough spine-tingling moments to keep me gripped. The perfect book to curl up with by the fire on a stormy night . . . although perhaps not by yourself in an empty house!
—Katherine Webb, author of The Unseen
The Haunting of Maddy Clare
“The Haunting of Maddy Clare is a novel of chilling romantic suspense that evokes the lost era between the World Wars that so wounded the lives of the young men and women of England, and adds to the mix an inventively dark, gothic ghost story. Read it with the lights on. Simply spellbinding.”
—Susanna Kearsley, New York Times bestselling author of The Winter Sea
“The Haunting of Maddy Clare is a compelling read. With a strong setting, vivid supporting characters, and sympathetic protagonists, the book is a wonderful blend of romance, mystery, and pure creepiness. Simone St. James is a talent to watch.”
—Anne Stuart, New York Times bestselling author of Shameless
“A compelling and beautifully written debut full of mystery, emotion, and romance.”
—Madeline Hunter, New York Times bestselling author of The Surrender of Miss Fairbourne
“This deliciously eerie, traditionally gothic ghost story grabbed me with its first sentence and didn’t let go until the very last. . . . Author Simone St. James gets everything right in this ghostly tale, and I’ll be standing in line to buy whatever she writes next.”
—Wendy Webb, author of The Tale of Halcyon Crane
“With a fresh, unique voice, Simone St. James creates an atmosphere that is deliciously creepy and a heroine you won’t soon forget. The Haunting of Maddy Clare promises spooky thrills and it delivers. Read it, enjoy it—but don’t turn out the lights!”
—Deanna Raybourn, author of the Julia Grey series and of The Dark Enquiry
“Fast, fun, and gripping. Kept me up into the wee hours.”
—C. S. Harris, author of the Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery series
“Compelling and deliciously unsettling, this is a story that begs to be read in one sitting. I couldn’t put it down!”
—Megan Chance, national bestselling author of City of Ash
“Debut author St. James has written an atmospheric and resoundingly old-fashioned ghost story that pulls you in from the first pages. . . . St. James’s writing evokes the time period without pretension; the pacing is just right, the ghost story plausible, and the love story important but not all-consuming. Recommended.”
—The Historical Novels Review
“St. James deftly ratchets up the tension in this thrilling ghost story.”
—Publishers Weekly
Others Books by Simone St. James
The Haunting of Maddy Clare
New American Library
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, March 2013
Copyright © Simone Seguin, 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
St. James, Simone.
An inquiry into love and death/Simone St. James.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-101-61493-8
I. Title.
PR9199.4.S726I57 2013
813'.6—dc23
2012027265
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
For my mother
Acknowledgments
My sincerest gratitude goes to my editor, Ellen Edwards, for her tireless work on this book. It would not be nearly the same story without her input and advice. Thanks to my wonderful agent, Pam Hopkins, for her partnership and friendship. Thanks also go to the publicity department at NAL for their support and to the art department for my beautiful covers.
My friends—specifically Tiffany Clare, Michelle Rowen, Molly O’Keefe, Maureen McGowan, Juliana Stone, and Eve Silver—were incredibly generous with their friendship and advice. Thanks, guys. I’m grateful to my family—my mother and sister for cheering me on, and my brother, David, for helping me with my Web site. And as always, every day, thank you, Adam, for everything.
Contents
Praise for Simone St. James
Also by Simone St. James
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
&n
bsp; Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Author’s Note
About the Author
Special Preview
One
My uncle Toby died of a broken neck in the autumn of 1924, just as I was starting the Michaelmas term at Oxford. I was pulled from the back of the lecture hall by a pimpled assistant in thick Mary Janes and an ill-fitting skirt who hissed that I had a confidential summons and must go to the administrative office at once. She even led me there, though it was just across the quad, so agog was she at the mystery of it.
When I learned what had happened, it was a mystery to me as well, for my uncle had not been spoken of in my family in nearly eight years.
I was shown into an unused office where the solicitor from London gave me the news. He was a compact man in a neat vest, out of place against the scored and mismatched furniture and stacks of books. Still, he bade me sit and spoke to me with quiet courtesy, as if we were not in a damp, borrowed room whose drafty windows barely kept out the mist from the commons outside.
“I’m sorry,” he said, after he had told me. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a clean handkerchief. “Do you need a moment before we proceed?”
I looked at the handkerchief, apparently a spare, and the only thought I could muster was that he had come terribly well prepared. “You must give news like this often,” I said.
Surprise flickered across his face, and he folded the handkerchief again.
“I’m sorry,” I said, realizing how I sounded. “It’s just that I don’t know what to say. I really don’t. I didn’t know Toby very well. And I don’t—That is, I’ve never dealt with . . .” I trailed off. How stupid for a philosophy student, who had safely debated the concept of death and the immortality of the soul with her fellows, to admit she had never known anyone to actually die.
“It will take some time,” the solicitor, who was called Mr. Reed, said kindly. “And yes, I do give such news from time to time. Usually in situations in which the deceased does not have much family.”
I nearly opened my mouth to protest: But Toby has family. He had his brother, my father. But perhaps Mr. Reed meant a wife, children. Toby had never had those. And why count family one didn’t speak to? “Does my father know?” I asked.
“Yes. I cabled him yesterday.” Mr. Reed gave me a calm, lawyerly regard, stern but not without gentleness. It was well perfected for a man under forty. “I’ve come, Miss Leigh, to tell you there is a great deal to be done. Do you understand?”
I nodded, awash with relief. “Yes, yes, of course I understand. My parents will come home.”
There was an awkward silence as he straightened the papers in front of him, running his finger along the edges. “I’m afraid that’s not quite what I mean. I received the reply by cable this morning. It’s why I came up here from London on the first train directly. Your parents are not coming home. They have sent me to you.”
“To me? What can I do?”
“His personal effects will require taking care of. But as your uncle carried no identification on him, no legal issues can be addressed before someone identifies the body.”
I stared at him for a long moment, aghast. “You must be joking.”
He shook his head. “I wish I were.”
“I can’t do that. Identify a body. Are you mad? I simply can’t.”
Again he ran his finger along the edge of his papers. “Miss Leigh, I realize the idea is unpleasant. I admit these aren’t the exact circumstances I would have chosen. But it seems these are the circumstances we’ve been given. Your uncle’s body is currently housed in a magistrate’s office in Devonshire. The coroner has not yet submitted his ruling, but I expect it will be classified an accident. In any case, we can’t move forward with Toby’s final wishes until the identification is done.”
I tried to picture it—my uncle lying on a table in a shabby room somewhere, under a sheet—and failed. Toby had always been kind to me, bringing me sweets when I was a child, even though he was shy and unused to children. I pressed my hands to my temples. I felt ill, but I tried to buck myself up. I’d go to Devonshire, get this hideous experience over with, and come straight back to school. That was all.
Then Mr. Reed continued on about wills, and finances, and cremation arrangements—it seemed my uncle did not want a funeral or a burial plot—and I felt a sickening twist in my stomach as everything suddenly got worse. A headache began to form beneath my temples.
I was twenty-two, and a college student; a worse candidate for these tasks could hardly be found. I interrupted him midsentence. “Are you certain this is what my parents instructed? I’d think it is something they would want to handle themselves.”
“It’s unorthodox,” he admitted. “But I don’t know your parents, Miss Leigh. I only knew your uncle, and, well”—he smiled, as if he had gathered I wouldn’t take offense at the implication—“some families are less orthodox than others.”
I nearly groaned. Unorthodox only began to describe my parents—or Uncle Toby, for that matter. I possessed only enough courage to tell the girls at school a much-edited version of the truth. “What did you mean about his belongings?”
“Yes, that. Miss Leigh, I gather you are aware of what your uncle did for a living.”
I forced my lips to move. Mention of Toby’s occupation always gave me a chill of fear, mixed with bewilderment I had never untangled. “Yes.”
“He was staying in a small town called Rothewell. In Devonshire, as I say. I believe he was on one of his unusual projects. He had taken rooms, which need to be emptied, and his things sorted and packed.”
One of his unusual projects. Oh, God. “Travel to Devonshire? It’s the start of the term. Can’t it wait?”
“According to the landlady, I’m afraid not.”
I stared down into my tweed-skirted lap. Somerville was the most prestigious women’s college in the country. Girls prepared for years to get in. As it was, I worked day and night to keep up with the workload; I was, quite simply, expected to succeed. To leave at the beginning of term was ludicrous. And yet, it seemed my unorthodox family would conspire to have me do just that.
He was on one of his unusual projects.
Perhaps someone could be hired. . . . But no. Even at my most selfish, I wouldn’t hire a stranger to go through my uncle’s things.
“Miss Leigh,” Mr. Reed said, as if reading my mind. “I would not be here if there were another option.”
My glance caught his hands, resting on the desk. He wore a wedding ring. He would take the London train home tonight to his wife, and possibly his children, in a warm, happy home. He had family; so, in a fashion, did I. Toby had no one.
I sighed and raised my head.
Mr. Reed looked into my eyes and smiled. “Let me get the map,” he said.
• • •
“That’s simply horrible,” my flatmate, Caroline, said when I told her the news. She leaned back against the dusty radiator and watched as I put the valise on my bed and opened it. “Did he really fall from a cliff?”
“Yes, in the town where he’d been staying.”
“But what happened to the poor man?”
“I don’t know.”
“Didn’t they say? Do you think he . . .” Her eyes widened.
I kept my voice calm. “They think it was an accident.”
“But you don’t know,” she said as I tossed dresses into the valise. She was blond, rounded, pretty behind the glasses she wore. “It’s utterly gothic, like a novel. Perhaps he was a millionaire and has left you everything. Perhaps he was a spy on a secret mission.”
I was glad she didn’t know the truth. “Caro, he was none of those things.”
“Well, you needn’t be sensitive. You said you hardly knew him. You’re the only person I’ve met who has had a mysterious uncle die. It’s the most excitem
ent we’ll see here for weeks.”
She wasn’t entirely wrong. To the outside world, Somerville girls—females with the gall to want an actual Oxford education—were a novelty, an insult, a threat, or sometimes a laughingstock. We were wild, marauding womanhood, making off with civilization and traditional values with our thoughtless modern ways. In reality we were well-bred, well-behaved girls who spent all our evenings studying and trying not to think about the male students we weren’t allowed anywhere near.
Somerville didn’t have housing, so I stayed in an all-girls’ boardinghouse, overseen by a landlady who strictly regulated every girl’s comings and goings, as well as everything we ate and wore. The house had but one radio, placed in the main sitting room for better supervision; lights went out at exactly ten thirty, and any girl who disobeyed was promptly told to leave. My father’s international reputation as a chemist, as well as his money, had gained my admittance. It was my good behavior—as well as my failure to mention my eccentric, disreputable uncle to anyone I knew—that kept me there.
“We’ll see,” I said. “Is that my telegram?”
“Oh, God—yes, I forgot.” Caroline took the paper I’d seen on the dressing table and handed it to me. “It just came. I’m sorry.”
I tore it open. It was from my mother.
Mr. Reed will be contacting you, Mother wrote, belatedly. Please do as he asks. Toby likely left his affairs a mess. I don’t think there’s any money. Your father and I cannot leave Paris. The work here is too important. It’s only for a few days, darling, I promise. Please do this for us. We simply cannot handle it. Toby should be laid to rest by family.
Family meant, in this case, me.
I had a sudden memory of a seaside vacation we’d all taken when I was a small child. A hotel with a wooden veranda painted white, a hot summer sky, a dark sand beach. My parents lazing late into the morning, mixing cocktails in the afternoon, talking through the night. And Toby taking me out to the water’s edge as the sun came up, before anyone else awoke, crouching down and smiling at me from under the brim of his straw boater. He had shown me the shells in the sand, naming each of them for me, explaining where they had come from and what creatures had owned them, answering my endless questions until the sun was high and we had gone in to breakfast.
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