An Inquiry Into Love and Death

by Simone St. James

  I was speechless. He finished writing, closed the notebook with a snap, and looked up at me.

  “You suspected me of murder?” I said.

  “I suspect everyone of murder,” he replied. “Where was your uncle’s room?”

  • • •

  Toby had taken the master bedroom, which featured a double bed of unpolished brass, a few thin blankets, a dresser, and an old writing desk. The bed was made, a few of Toby’s clothes tossed carelessly on it. A shaving mirror was propped on the dresser, next to a tray containing his other shaving items. A toothbrush, a comb. None of this was remarkable.

  The window and the suitcases were remarkable.

  The window, by my calculation, looked over the front of the house. But there was no view through it, for behind the heavy, drawn curtains we could see that the glass was blocked. The inspector pulled one of the curtains back. Someone—Toby—had taken a wool blanket from the linen cupboard and nailed it into the four corners of the wooden window frame. Then he had covered the dark square with the heavy curtains, which he had fastened shut.

  The effect was one of sinister gloom. The sunlight only barely penetrated, and the details of the room were hard to see, as if we were in a watercolor painting.

  “Hmm,” said the inspector. “Perhaps your uncle had insomnia. There are people who can’t sleep unless they’re in total darkness.”

  I said nothing. I stared at the window, my stomach sinking. It seemed to stare back at me. It made me think of the scratching at my window last night, that long, slow sound, and I pushed the thought away.

  Inspector Merriken moved on to two large suitcases that were stacked against the wall. They looked heavy; the smaller one was on top of the larger one, and the writing desk had been pushed out of the way to make room. The suitcases were far too big to contain clothing, unless Toby had a wardrobe that would put a Hollywood actor to shame.

  I moved over to the inspector’s shoulder as he unlatched the top one and lifted the lid. We both stared down into the case. Then the inspector picked up the carefully packed objects there one by one, removing them from their dark velvet lining.

  “A clock,” he said. “No, two clocks—one is a stopwatch. A thermometer. An electric torch and a spare. A compass. A measuring tape. Canisters of film . . .”

  “Ghost-hunting tools,” I said. “This is my uncle’s ghost-hunting kit.”

  His eyes caught mine for a second. “Are you certain?”

  “It must be,” I said. I pointed to the items one by one. “A clock to note when the sightings appear. A stopwatch to time them. A thermometer to measure air temperature changes. A torch for nighttime work, and a spare in case the first is broken. As for the film . . .” I looked around us. “The camera is in a case next to the bed, over there. To try to capture the ghosts on film, of course.”

  He looked back down into the case, perplexed. “I’ve never seen anything like this before. You have a rather interesting family.”

  “Thank you.”

  He touched some of the items again, brushing his hand over them as if they could tell him something, as absorbed as a dog on a scent. Then he shut the lid. “Has anyone else been through the house since your uncle died?”

  I shook my head. “The landlady told me she doesn’t even have a key. She’s lost her copy.”

  “And have you touched anything? Gone through his belongings?”

  “No.”

  He hauled the smaller of the two cases off the larger one and onto the bed, then opened the larger case. This one we stared at for even longer, trying to figure out—at least on my part—what the thing could be.

  It was a single object, carefully placed in a case that was obviously custom-made to transport it. There seemed to be a large metal base, a battery, knobs. Protruding from the top of the inexplicable thing was a metal gauge etched with numbers, measured by a long, narrow needle.

  “What in the world is it?” I said.

  “It’s hard to tell in this light.” He opened the smaller case again and pulled out one of the electric torches, which he shone on the etched metal numbers as he leaned close to read them. The light spilled over his profile, making him into a black-and-white photograph, like the pictures of film stars they put in magazines.

  “I believe it’s a galvanoscope,” he said.

  “And what is that?”

  He shut off the torch and replaced it. “It measures electromagnetic energy fluctuations. We used them in the war to detect submarines.”

  I shook my head. “This is nothing like I thought it would be.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I gestured at the cases. “It’s all so scientific. Electromagnetic fluctuations? I think I imagined him doing séances, or something similar. But this equipment—the galvanoscope alone must have been expensive. He must have had it custom-made, unless he was secretly in the navy.”

  “The navy doesn’t give them out, no. At least, not that I’m aware of.”

  I stopped, realizing he was a few years older than me, the right age to have been in the war. “Were you in the navy?”

  He turned away, closed the lid to the case containing the clocks and torches. “No. RAF.”

  “You were a pilot?”

  “Yes.”

  I could picture him as a pilot. The RAF was celebrated for its fearless fighters with nerves of steel. The newspapers and newsreels had had a heyday with them during the war. “It sounds heroic.”

  He raised his head and looked at me, his eyes glinting in the dim light, shadows smudged under his cheekbones. He gave a sort of grim laugh, a sound that was pure darkness. “Not exactly.”

  I hadn’t met many soldiers; I had no brothers or cousins, and I’d been too young to volunteer myself. My father had done some kind of job for the War Office that kept him in London; Toby hadn’t served that I knew of, and as he’d left our lives, what Toby had done during wartime was now one of his many mysteries. I knew of the butcher’s son who had come home missing a hand, and my tutor’s grandson who hadn’t come home at all. At Somerville, I knew girls who had lost brothers and cousins, and it was a common refrain among all the girls that there was a lack of marriageable men.

  Inspector Merriken closed the case containing the galvanoscope with his strong arms and powerful hands, the dim light casting him in shadow.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “It’s all right.” His voice held something tightly leashed. “It just isn’t much of a talent, killing people. No matter how good one gets to be at it. And it seems I was awfully good.” He frowned. “For God’s sake, I shouldn’t have said that. Forget I said it.”

  “Of course.”

  The air seemed to have gone out of the room. He raised a hand and rubbed his forehead. I watched him. “All right,” I said after a moment. “You aren’t heroic. I’ll make a note of it.”

  He glanced at me sharply, then shook his head. “Please forget it. What were we talking about?”

  “The galvanoscope. And you were questioning me.”

  “Thank you. I’ll continue, then. Did your parents approve of Toby’s ghost hunting?”

  “Not at all,” I replied, glad to change the subject. “They hated it. I think it embarrassed them. My father is a chemist; he’s rather renowned, and he has to look out for his reputation. In any case, he’s devoted his life to the pursuit of science, and my mother assists him.” My mother had been my father’s assistant when they became involved; they had made quite a scandal in their day. “They see ghost hunting as charlatanism, not science.”

  “Is that the reason for their disagreement?”

  “I don’t see how it could be. Toby was always a ghost hunter, since before I was born. I don’t see what could have changed.”

  “And yet, when Toby died, neither of your parents came home to bury him.”

  I
ran a hand through my hair, looking helplessly around at all the belongings I was somehow supposed to dispose of. “They would have come. But my father is teaching in Paris.”

  Recovered now, Inspector Merriken put his hands in his pockets and regarded me in the gloom. “They left you to deal with the body on your own. I find that interesting.”

  “I don’t think they realized,” I said, the defense automatic from my mouth.

  “And if they had?”

  That stopped me. For if they had, they would still have stayed in Paris. The work always came first.

  “Right,” he said in reply to my silence.

  It was a shot, meant to reestablish his authority over me, and it was a well-aimed one. “Are you asking me to admit I’m angry at my parents? Very well, I am—a little. But you haven’t met them. They just jolly you out of it and pour a drink. Anger isn’t something we do in our family.”

  “Perhaps you should start.”

  “Thank you for the advice.” My cheeks were burning. I turned and made for the door.

  “Miss Leigh.”

  I looked down. His hand was on my arm. Something made my breath stop in my throat. I raised my eyes to his.

  And just like that, something arced between us. My body flushed hot. His hand on me felt almost familiar, as if he’d touched me before. His gaze darkened as he looked at me, his grip flexed, and for just a second I felt a pull—so brief I thought I’d imagined it—as if he were about to draw me toward him. In that second, I would have gone, my body understanding before my mind could protest.

  Then he let me go.

  He stepped back into the shadows, put his hands in his pockets again.

  “Should I forget about that, too?” I asked.

  He was quiet. I couldn’t see his face in the dark, but I knew mine was burning. My heart wouldn’t slow down. I could still feel his touch on my arm.

  “I’ll see myself out,” he said after a moment, his voice composed. “I’m at a hotel called the White Lion in St. Thomas’ Gate, if you need me. It’s just a mile up the road through the woods.” He turned toward the door.

  I found my voice. “What should I do?” I asked him.

  He paused. “You can pack his things now,” he said. “I’ve seen what I need. And if you’re adept at research, you may want to dig up what you can about the local ghost.”

  The moment broke. “The what?”

  “The local ghost,” he repeated. “There’s a legendary one hereabouts. I believe his name is Walking John.” Inspector Merriken nodded toward the equipment behind me. “I’ll wager that’s who your uncle was hunting. I’ll be in touch, Miss Leigh.”

  And with that, he was gone.

  Six

  An hour later, I was behind the wheel of my little motorcar, carefully navigating into town. I was restless and unable to stay in Barrow House. I kept thinking about Inspector Merriken, and my mind would not settle. I decided to go into Rothewell proper for supplies.

  What had just happened between us? He’d touched only my arm, but I’d felt the reverberations of that touch through my body like an echo. I could still feel them now.

  I knew what happened between men and women. My parents had never seen any reason not to educate me, and they’d been permissive in letting me read anything I wanted. Still, for a girl going from her parents’ home to a women’s college, opportunities with men were few. I’d had a handful of evenings out and exactly two clumsy, awkward kisses—all of which convinced me there was something the books were not quite telling me. I’d spent some long, lonely nights wondering exactly what it was.

  That raw moment with Inspector Merriken had stirred me. It had been strange, thrilling, and unfamiliar. Part of my mind—the rational part—jangled in alarm. Inspector Merriken would not be a safe man to tangle with.

  As I drove, I soon saw why Edward Bruton preferred transport by donkey. I gripped the wheel as the motorcar jolted down the hill, following the road back and forth through one switchback turn after another. The day had become cool and gray, the sun hiding behind the brisk, solid clouds of midautumn. Before me, at the foot of the hill, the vast expanse of the sea approached, pearlescent and swirling, dotted with a handful of boats.

  There were houses even on the steep slope here, built bravely on a slant, giving the appearance of being ready to tumble into the sea. One or two housewives swept porches; an old man smoked his pipe in his front doorway and watched me with unbroken concentration as I passed. I kept my eyes on the narrow road.

  On the last plateau before the final drop to the sea, Rothewell had built its High Street. The buildings were set in a tidy row overlooking the ocean, protected from the wind and the drop to the beach by a low stone wall. Below this, the beach was a large expanse sliding out to the turbulent sea. An old wooden pier stood in the water, battered and wet, with only a few fishing boats tethered along one side. There was no activity anywhere along the pier; at this time of day, I assumed, the fishermen were already out working, and wouldn’t come back until sundown.

  I parked in a stony clearing at the end of the road. My hands were cramped from clenching the wheel on the hairpin drive. High Street contained a few stores, a post office, an old church at one end, and a few citizens who looked at me curiously as they went about their business. A man sitting in the window of a pub watched me as I passed; he was youngish, his hair wheat blond, dressed in an open-throated shirt and jacket, a plate of food untouched on the table before him.

  Perhaps it was the motorcar, which was obviously unusual, that had people staring. Perhaps it was simply the presence of a stranger. I had put on a silk dress, overcoat, stockings, patent-leather pumps, and a hat with a dark blue ribbon.

  I ducked into a shop with a hand-lettered sign offering MARKET—SUNDRIES—GOODS. It was small and a little musty, but someone had taken great care with each shelf, tidying it and stocking it just so. To my surprise, the only person in the shop was a boy of about nine, with blue eyes and thick blond hair, who sat on a high stool behind the counter. When he saw me, he slid from his seat without a word and ducked into a back room, presumably to fetch a grown-up.

  I selected some sausage, bread, cheese, and cocoa to bring back to Barrow House. A woman appeared from the back room and took her place behind the counter. She was slender, her hair tied carelessly at the back of her neck. She appeared to be over thirty, with dark-lashed hazel eyes and a narrow chin, and her boxy dress and out-of-fashion collar did little to mar how pretty she was. She arranged my purchases with long, precise fingers adorned with a narrow gold wedding ring.

  I smiled at her. “Was that your boy?”

  Motherly pride broke through her reserve, and she smiled back, though I thought her eyes were sad. “Yes. That was Sam. He likes to help, though normally he has better manners. I’m afraid he’s rather shy.”

  I assured her the boy’s manners were impeccable, of course, as I paid for the food. As I left the store, I glanced at the pub again. The blond man was gone.

  I stowed my basket in the motor and, unwilling to leave yet, I directed my steps down the cobbled path to the wall that paralleled the beach. Here I found a walking path, where one could stroll and take the air, or sit on the low wall and rest. It was the kind of thoroughfare built in resort towns, though there were no tourists to be seen on this chilled, dreary day, and I stood utterly alone.

  I stopped and looked about me. The sea was beautiful, if rather desolate from here. Only a few boats, signified by smudged, lonely dots, traveled the water. To my left, rocky cliffs rose from the beach, crowned in dense woodland, beautiful in their frowning majesty.

  I realized with a shock that I must be looking at the cliffs where my uncle had died. Inspector Merriken had said Toby had been seen from the water. He must have landed on the rocky outcrop at the foot of the cliffs. My stomach turned as I stared. It was a long, harrowing drop. I heard the inspector’s
voice. It was ten o’clock in the morning, and your uncle had been dead for three to five hours.

  The scrape of footsteps came behind me, and I turned to see the woman from the shop. She had put on a wool coat against the chill wind and was pulling a small cigarette case from her pocket.

  “Do you like the view?” she asked, as she took out her matchbook. “The fishing isn’t good just here, so the boats all go to the other side of the bay, where it’s better. It leaves the sea nice and quiet during the day. I like to have a cigarette out here from time to time. I find it soothing.”

  I glanced at the cruel stone cliffs, the water thrashing at the bottom. “It’s terrifying.”

  She had struck a light to her cigarette, and her eyes regarded me inquisitively as she inhaled. She took the cigarette from her lips and her expression fell. “Oh, I’ve just realized. Toby Leigh.”

  “I’m his niece, yes.”

  “Yes, I see it now.” She shook her head. “Well, what a blunder that was. I’m sorry.” She moved to the stone wall and sat on it, her back to the water, several feet from me—giving me the option of ignoring her existence if I so chose without appearing rude.

  I moved closer to her and held out my hand. “You mustn’t worry about it, please. I’m Jillian Leigh.”

  She looked at my hand with a brief pause—hand shaking was apparently eccentric here, though the girls at Somerville did it all the time—and took it in her gloved fingers, squeezing gingerly. She gave me a small smile. “Rachel Moorcock.”

  “You own the market store?”

  “My father does.” She offered me a cigarette but I shook my head, never having enjoyed the habit. “He’s ill, so I manage the store most days.”

  I wanted to ask where her husband was, but it seemed rude. The boy looked nearly old enough to have been born before the war, so perhaps I could guess. “It seems a lot of responsibility.”

  She shrugged. “I could get into worse trouble, I suppose.” Her eyes flickered to me and she took another drag on her cigarette. “I didn’t know Toby Leigh had a niece.”