“I just told you what happened,” I said quietly.
“Jillian.” He looked at me. “You did not encounter a ghost last night.”
“I very much disagree.”
“It may have been nothing. You may have imagined it.” He ignored my flush of anger and continued. “But what concerns me is that someone may have been trying to scare you.”
I was incredulous. “Someone trying to scare me?”
“There’s already a legend of a ghost in Rothewell. What if someone was trying to frighten you off?”
“I can’t believe you’re saying this. Are you suggesting that one of my neighbors came to my house last night and pretended to be a ghost, so I would run away?”
“It nearly worked, did it not?”
“Inspector, the gate flew open. There was nothing there. I saw it.”
“It was the middle of a windstorm.”
“A storm that opens latches?”
“It may not have been closed correctly in the first place. Did you open that gate at any point during the day?”
I was silent, thinking of my visit from Mrs. Kates and her daughter, my walk with William Moorcock.
“Admit it, Jillian,” he said. “Everything you encountered has a logical explanation.”
I stood and picked up my hat and gloves with a jerky motion. I was strangely, deeply hurt and suddenly felt very alone. “I thought . . . I don’t know what I thought. I suppose Sultana is my only witness.”
“Who is Sultana?”
“The cat.”
“Well, as I can’t interview a cat, I’ll settle for looking around Barrow House. Let me get my things.”
We left a few moments later, passing the disapproving Mrs. Ebury in the front foyer. We drove in our separate motorcars back to Rothewell. The look in the inspector’s eyes as I’d spoken of the ghost, one of wariness and a sort of pity, had struck me, and I thought that Toby must have seen that look from other people a great many times in his life.
I entered Barrow House through the front door, but he didn’t follow. When I opened the kitchen door, I found he’d already gone ’round the house to the garden. “Stand where you are, if you would,” he said through the doorway. “I need to see any footprints back here.”
The back garden was now lit with the thinning autumn sun, but the evidence of last night was everywhere. The gate was opened, the flowerpot spilled and overturned, the shutters over the library crookedly fastened. I stood in the kitchen and felt the eeriness wash over me again.
Drew called a question to me, and I managed to reply. We went over everything in my story, step by step, the two of us shouting back and forth: the crash, my steps out the door to the shutter, the cut on my thumb, the steps back.
At the doorway again he bent to examine the stoop, and I stepped outside to peer over his shoulder.
“I told you to stay still,” he said without looking at me.
I didn’t bother to answer. For a moment I was distracted by the sight of him, his wrists braced casually over his bent knees, the line of his dark back. Then I saw what he was looking at.
Just outside the kitchen door, there was blood smeared heavily into the cobblestones.
My thumb throbbed. I took a step back. I remembered the shock and pain of the cut, the blood hitting the cobbles with a flat, wet sound.
The blood had been shining and wet last night, but something had pressed it into a long, rusty smear.
Drew looked up at me from his crouched position on the ground. “You don’t remember hearing anything else?” he said gravely. “Footsteps? Any other noise?”
I shook my head.
He rose in one graceful, effortless motion. “Stay here.” He strode to the back garden gate, which still stood open, and disappeared.
I stepped out onto the cobbles, avoiding the blood. Birds called to one another lazily. The sea was a distant rush, almost indistinguishable from the wind. The air smelled fresh, washed clean after the storm. I stared at the overturned flowerpot. It had been upright yesterday afternoon, when I had met William Moorcock and his dog; it must have been overturned by Walking John last night, but I had not heard it. Suddenly I understood, or thought I did, with a sickening chill. It began to make an awful kind of sense.
Drew returned, his jaw set in frustration. I didn’t need to ask whether he had found any illuminating tracks. He approached me and looked down at me from under the elegant brim of his hat.
“If it was a ghost,” he said, “then why are you staying here? Why not leave?”
“You can’t be serious. My uncle was murdered.”
“Yes, and that’s what I’m here for. To find out who did it. You can go. You should go.”
“I’m not leaving,” I said.
His face was set in hard lines. “Well, what if this thing”—he gestured vaguely with a hand toward the garden, the woods—“whatever it is, comes again tonight?”
I swallowed. “It may. But I’ve figured something out. The flowerpot.” I nodded toward it. “The wind could not have knocked that over, no matter how strong. It’s far too heavy.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I know.”
“It turned the pot over,” I said. “Deliberately, while I was in the library. But it was storming, and I didn’t hear. So it broke the shutter, and then he—it—left the garden. Do you see?”
“See what?”
“It was luring me. It waited until I came outside, and then it came back. It lured me deliberately. Because it can’t come in. It wanted me to come out, because it can’t get in the house.”
A grim sort of horror overcame his expression, and for a second—just that second—I saw him teeter on the brink of believing. “You’re talking about some kind of intelligence.”
“Yes, I think I am. I think the local ghost is more than just a legend. And I think my uncle knew it as well.”
He looked back at the gate, seeming to consider this. I thought I’d get another lecture on the impossibility of it all, or the precarious state of my psyche, but when he turned to me again his demeanor had started to change. He had a spark of interest about him, instinctive and unthinking, like a well-trained dog who hears the flap of wings in the bushes.
“All right, I’ll admit it’s interesting,” he said. “You’re a hellishly impossible girl, and I could get laughed out of Scotland Yard, but for some reason—God knows why—I’m game. What do we do next, then?”
I remembered my conversation with Rachel Moorcock. She’d mentioned her brother-in-law, William, but she’d also said something else about the vicar: He’s our local historian. If your uncle wanted to know about Walking John, he’d likely start there.
“I’d like to introduce myself to the vicar,” I said to Inspector Merriken. “Would you like to come?”
Eleven
The front door of the vicarage was answered by a woman of striking height and spareness, with short-cropped hair. She was over forty, and her dress of the current style—flat in front, with a sash circling below the waist—accentuated her wide, boyish physique. While correct according to the fashion magazines, it was not flattering.
“He’s around back, most likely,” she said when we had introduced ourselves and asked for the vicar. She smiled at us, her eyes crinkling. “In the greenhouse, I think. I’m his wife, Mrs. Thorne. How do you do. I’m sorry, I’d let you in, but I was just heading out to do the shopping.”
Inspector Merriken removed his hat. “We’ll find him, thank you. We’re sorry to interrupt.”
She shrugged good-naturedly. “It’s nothing, believe me. A vicar’s wife gets used to it. Aubrey gets called on at the strangest times. He warned me when I married him, and I’ve found he’s right.”
She directed us to the greenhouse behind the vicarage, explaining that her husband spent his rare free afternoons there. We found a glass
structure, added onto the house in the space between the vicarage and the church proper; it was homemade, though well built and neat. Inspector Merriken knocked on the painted door, and when a voice called to us, we went inside.
It was a small space, full of gardening tools and smelling of fresh, humid soil. It was lined with two long tables nearly the length of the room, cluttered with pots producing all sorts of greenery. I knew next to nothing about gardens, but I recognized primroses, though they had no blooms, and sowbread; in one corner was a larger pot containing a bush of lush pink roses.
Sitting on one of the benches, bending over a clay pot into which he was gingerly pressing a bulb, was a tall, long-legged man. He straightened at our approach, and replaced the view of his balding head with that of a long, bony, kindly face. It was not unhandsome in its way, with a strong brow, high cheekbones, and a prominent jaw.
“Good day,” he said in a deep voice. “May I help you?”
“I’m sorry to disturb,” the inspector said. “Your wife said we could come ’round.”
“Of course, of course.” The man tugged off his gardening gloves and stood as loose black soil tumbled back into the pot. “I’m Aubrey Thorne, the vicar here.”
“Inspector Merriken, Scotland Yard. This is Miss Jillian Leigh.”
The vicar looked from one to the other of us, comprehending. “I take it this is to do with Toby Leigh.”
“Yes.”
Thorne gathered two rickety chairs for us, and politely motioned us to sit. I noticed he was several years younger than his wife. It must have been a challenge, I thought, for the lady to find a husband taller than she was.
“Pardon the mess,” said Thorne, lowering himself on his bench again as we sat. “I’m not allowed back in the house until I’ve thoroughly cleaned myself off.”
“This is fine,” said Drew.
Thorne looked at me. “I’m terribly sorry about Toby,” he said with sincerity that only a vicar could express. “He never mentioned he had any children.”
“I’m his niece, actually.”
“Oh, pardon me. Well, in any case I’m glad to hear he had some family, someone to wrap things up for him. When I heard he’d died, I thought I’d be performing his funeral service, but seems he decreed against one.”
“He requested cremation with no service at all. Toby was, ah, not very religious.”
Thorne smiled. “I gathered as much,” he said with good humor. “His views were, shall we say, irreverent?”
“You seem to have known him rather well,” said Drew.
“Not as well as I would have liked, in truth,” Thorne replied. “Toby was a hard man to get to know. He seemed preoccupied; at first I was concerned, but I think that was just his way.”
“I assume you know what he did for a living?” I asked.
Thorne bent back down to his pot and smoothed the soil over the planted bulb, though his hand was now bare. “Ghost hunting? Yes, I knew. He was here in search of Walking John. We don’t get many ghost hunters here, and I was wary at first. We don’t really like to talk about Walking John in Rothewell.” He glanced up at us and smiled, then turned back to his pot, as if smoothing the soil helped him think. “He had to tell me, because he wanted to go through the archives, and I wouldn’t let him do that until I knew what he wanted. But Toby wasn’t a thrill seeker or a charlatan. He was a scholar, probably a better one than I am.”
“Did Toby find him?” I asked, leaning forward. Drew gave me a look; doubtless he would have liked to lead the conversation himself. “Walking John, I mean. Did he find him?”
Thorne straightened and smiled at me. “Goodness, I have no idea. He never told me about it, and I never asked. I never go into the woods, myself.”
“You mention these archives,” the inspector said, taking over again. “What are they?”
“Oh, that’s a grand word for it, I suppose. I collect bits of Rothewell’s history. It’s always fascinated me, so I keep my eye out for interesting pieces. I keep all of it in an archive, though of course I’m not a historian, just an amateur.”
“What did Toby want to look at?”
Thorne almost scratched his forehead, then noticed the dirt on his hand and dropped it again. “Well, he wanted whatever he could find on John Barrow, of course.” Drew nodded; I had told him the story of John Barrow’s death as we drove down the hill. “I have a few letters that mention him, dating back to 1799. There are also accounts that mention the smuggling trade here in Devon, and in Rothewell specifically—histories, you know. There is an eyewitness account of Barrow’s ghost that I’ve kept, though I can’t be certain it’s legitimate. A few other sources mentioning our local legend. Whatever I can pick up, you know. Toby went through it all. That was the first time.”
“He came a second time?”
“Yes. I confess that I don’t know exactly what he wanted the second time. I was called away that day and I left him to his own devices, to look at whatever he wanted. By then I knew he’d treat my archives properly, and I had no problem trusting him alone.”
“What about the very first time Toby was here?” I said. “Years ago. Wouldn’t he have gone through the archives then?”
Thorne frowned, not noticing the unpleasantly shocked look on Drew’s face; I hadn’t told him what William Moorcock had told me about Toby’s previous visit. “If he was here years ago, then no. The archives didn’t exist at all. I only started collecting after the war. After I gained the living here.”
“You haven’t been the vicar long?” asked Drew.
“Only a few years, though I grew up here. I began the training when I was young, but then the war came. When I came back I was angry and reckless. Rebellious. I lost God for a time; I think many of us did. But when the calling returned, it was stronger than ever.” He smiled. “That was the same year I met my wife, and I’ve never looked back.”
Drew’s jaw was set. He pulled out his notebook and wrote in it. “Would Toby Leigh have signed anything out when he was here? Left any record?”
“I don’t have such a sophisticated system.” Thorne’s eyes followed the inspector’s pen, obviously wondering what was being written down. “I maintain the archive alone, on top of my duties here.”
The inspector looked up at him. “How did you serve in the war?”
“Artillery, ’fifteen and ’sixteen, until an unexploded shell broke my arm in three places and they sent me home. My shoulder still freezes up on me, and I’ve never had the same hearing since. Unless I’m very much mistaken, you fought as well.”
Some kind of knowledge I didn’t understand passed between the two men. “RAF,” Drew said.
“Ah,” said Aubrey Thorne, not unkindly. “We didn’t see much of you fellows.”
Drew cleared his throat. “No, I suppose not.”
“I shot at a lot of German planes. I don’t know whether I hit any of them myself, but I saw a few of them go down. On fire, mostly, and they kept burning when they hit the ground. No way for a pilot to get out of that. Not a very good way to die. A quick bullet to the head, we always said; that’s all we wanted if we had to go.”
“We got those, too,” the inspector said.
“Yes, I guess you did. At the time, I thought it exciting, a grand adventure. A way to thumb my nose at my family and their expectations of me. I was impulsive, as so many young people are. That’s what I mean when I say I lost God.”
“I don’t remember feeling adventurous,” Drew said. “I remember wondering if I’d live through another few hours. And seeing a lot of men who didn’t. I remember looking around in the evenings and noting who hadn’t come back, looking at all the faces wondering which of them would disappear tomorrow.”
Aubrey Thorne shook his head. “I was sheltered and foolish. This is a small town, and not much happens here. I joined up with Will—that’s William Moorcock, whom I’
ve known all my life—and we went off to have a grand, glamorous lark. So did most of the young men of Rothewell. Only three of us who joined from Rothewell came back—me, Will, and Edward Bruton. This town has never been the same.”
“William told me,” I said. “He lost his brother, Raymond.”
“You’ve met William, have you?” Thorne looked at me, and his gaze took me in carefully. “I think he’d quite like you.”
Before I could answer this strange statement, Drew took over again. “Just a few more questions, if you would.”
“Of course.”
“Where were you on Thursday morning?”
Thorne blinked. “This past Thursday I was in the church, perhaps, opening it up, or here in the greenhouse. I couldn’t rightly say.”
“Did you see or hear anything unusual that morning? Think carefully.”
“No . . . no, I don’t believe I did.”
“Did Toby Leigh ever talk to you about being afraid of anyone? Of anything out of the ordinary going on? Of any kind of trouble he was in?”
“Well.” The vicar scratched his head, forgetting about the dirt this time. “That’s difficult, as I didn’t know him well, so I’m not sure what’s ordinary. But no, he didn’t mention anything. No.”
Drew made another note. “And where were you last night?”
This surprised Thorne. “Why, home with Enid, of course. There was a frightful storm last night.”
“Are you quite certain?”
There was a long pause, and the two men looked at each other again. “Yes,” Thorne said at last, and the warmth had gone from his voice. “I am.”
“Right, then.” Drew closed his notebook. “We’ll be in touch.”
Twelve
You didn’t have to antagonize him, you know,” I said.
I was sitting on the stone wall in Rothewell again, looking out over the sea. Drew joined me, handing me a newspaper-wrapped piece of fish he’d fetched from the pub down the way. He unwrapped his own piece and began eating it with unconcern. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
An Inquiry Into Love and Death Page 9