An Inquiry Into Love and Death

by Simone St. James

  “Perhaps Rachel doesn’t need to marry,” I tried.

  “Poppycock! Of course she does. The Yorks used to be a well-to-do family, you know, but not now. George was a fisherman, but he became ill after his wife died, and they don’t have Raymond to support them. I hear now they’re selling the boat to pay the debts. I wonder what Rachel will do after he goes. That store doesn’t make much money, I’m sure. She’s a nice enough girl, I suppose, but her luck has been hard, and she’s missed her best marrying years now. I wonder if anyone will take her.”

  Marry Edward Bruton, Rachel, I thought, and give this woman the shock of her life. Listening to her unending gossip, I was gripped by a sudden compulsion. I wondered whether I would regret it, but I couldn’t help what I did next any more than I could have helped rubbing my bruises to see whether they still hurt.

  I pulled the photograph of the girl from my pocket and placed it on the table. “I wonder, do you know who this was?”

  Mrs. Kates, sensing a story, looked avidly at the photo. “Yes, of course, that’s Elizabeth Price, the girl who married the butcher. Why do you ask?”

  “I found this in the archives. She . . . she looks like me, don’t you think?”

  Her eyes flickered between my face and the picture. Julia’s eyes did the same. “Why, yes, I believe you’re right. Perhaps it’s a family resemblance? That’s interesting, though no one knew anything about her people. She started as a servant, you know, at the Yorks’, before she married.”

  So this was the girl Rachel’s father thought I was. For some reason my throat was dry, and not from the fire or the smoke. “I think she died.”

  “Yes, she did. Childbirth. The baby didn’t live either. I saw her once or twice in the butcher shop during that last pregnancy, and she looked terribly ill. It was sad. Price left town after she died. I heard he remarried. We all thought it a grand joke, a butcher named Price. How very interesting—I wonder how the two of you are connected. No one asks about servants, you know, except to get a character.” Her eyes glinted. “You seem to be a respectable girl, I’ve noticed, even though you’re a little odd. If you weren’t respectable I wouldn’t let Julia anywhere near you—she needs proper influence. Perhaps Mrs. Price was from quality but had fallen on hard times.”

  From the back garden came a single soft thump. I glanced at Mrs. Kates and Julia, but the mother was busy talking, and the daughter was sipping her tea in silence. I thought I knew exactly who it was.

  “I’ll make a few inquiries, if you like,” Mrs. Kates was saying.

  My attention snapped back to her. “Oh, no. You needn’t.”

  But she smelled good gossip and was not about to let go. “It’s nothing. How thrilling if you found a lost family connection. There now, we’ve had our tea after all, didn’t we, and wasn’t that a lovely chat? All’s well that ends well, you know. Julia, please do something about these cups. I’m off to powder my nose.”

  She left the room, and I looked at Julia’s silent back as she put the cups on the washing board. “Do you speak?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said softly, without turning.

  “You should try it,” I said.

  She shrugged, just a quick move of her shoulders under her boxy dress. “There’s no point.” She turned, and her eyes flickered to the doorway before coming back to me. “He had a picture of her, too, you know. Your uncle did.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The lady in the picture. Your uncle had a photo of her, a different one.”

  I stared at her. “Where?” I tried to control the excitement in my faded voice. “Where did you see it?”

  “I came to see him one day. Mother doesn’t know. He had it out on the desk, with those strange instruments.”

  When I looked more closely at her face, I realized it was impossible to tell how old she was. She was perhaps sixteen, but on a closer look, she could easily have been past twenty. Or maybe it was just the oldness in her eyes.

  “I never saw it,” I said to her. I wondered where the photograph was now. “Did you know her?”

  “No. Mother didn’t either, not really; that’s why she didn’t see that you look like her. She likes to pretend she knows everything, but that’s because she’s stupid.”

  I should have chastised her for speaking of her mother so, but instead I said, “Why did you come to see my uncle?”

  For the first time she reddened, and looked uncomfortable. “I came to ask him things. He was a ghost hunter. I came to ask him to fix it—to fix this place.” Her cheeks flamed even brighter as she spoke. “I know it’s stupid. I do. But I hate it here. The ghosts are everywhere. I’m always afraid. I have nightmares all the time. I don’t want to marry a man and live here, but Mother says I have to. And I just thought he might have the answers.”

  There was a furtive shuffling sound in the garden, but I ignored it. “Julia,” I said gently, “I’m not sure this place can be fixed. Not in the way you mean.”

  “It can. Mr. Leigh said that Walking John wants to go away, and he knew how to do it.”

  “When was this?”

  “Just before he died. He said—”

  “Julia!” Mrs. Kates came back into the room. “What are you prattling about?”

  I turned to her calmly. “She wanted to know how I make my hair curl.”

  “You foolish girl. She doesn’t use anything; any ninny could see that, though she should be using Miss Pym’s Hair Tonic for Young Ladies, like the rest of us with curls. And what are you doing asking about hair anyway? I can’t get you to let go of that braid.”

  Julia looked from me to her mother. “I’m going to cut it.”

  “Heavens! It will frizz straight to the skies. Come, we’ll discuss it on the way home. Good-bye, dear, and take some lemon and honey for that throat—you sound a little like a man.”

  When they had gone, I stood in the kitchen and waited, taking in the silence. After a long moment, I walked to the back door.

  “Inspector Merriken,” I whispered through the closed door, “get out of my back garden.”

  “Is that old biddy gone?” came a deep voice through the wood.

  “Yes.”

  “Then let me in.”

  “No. I told you, go away.”

  “Jillian, I’m sorry,” he said. “Teddy Easterbrook is an ass.”

  I leaned my head on the door and closed my eyes. I tried to remember what I had been angry about, but just his voice had my blood singing in my veins. “Yes, he is. I believe I’m finished with Scotland Yard.”

  “All right, I don’t entirely blame you. But Scotland Yard is not finished with you.”

  “Does that line work on all of your girls?”

  A single thump came on the door, of a frustrated man slapping it with one large palm. “Jillian.” His voice was darker now. “For God’s sake, let me in. I’ll stand here all night.”

  I opened the door, ready to be brittle, ready to use my defenses, but I had no time. Drew Merriken walked in, kicked the door shut behind him, and threw his hat on the table. Then he took me by the shoulders, backed me against the door, and kissed me.

  Twenty-five

  I resisted the kiss for all of a second. But it felt good to be held, to be touched, and his kiss made me feel safe and fiercely alive. I gripped his flexed upper arms and let him press me to the wall, the heat of his body suffusing mine. I parted my lips, and he needed no other invitation. He tilted my chin and kissed me with raw, naked hunger until I couldn’t breathe.

  He broke off and cupped my face in his hands. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” I managed, my fingers curling under his lapels.

  “Damn it, Jillian. Damn it. You just left before the doctor could come. I told you to stay bloody put. Are you hurt? Are you in pain?”

  “Not really—just . . . my throat, a little. My
chest hurts. And my hands.”

  He grabbed my hands and stared down into the palms, at their crisscrossed scratches, the red welt still running under my thumbnail. He was dressed like an inspector again, his collar crisp and his tie perfectly knotted, but his jaw was clenched and his eyes were wild. I was as liquid as a bowl of cream.

  He gripped my wrists and raised his gaze to my face. “What were you doing in there?” he demanded. “Tell me. What the bloody hell were you doing in that place? Full of all those dry, dusty papers? What were you thinking? How the hell did you knock over an oil lamp?”

  “I didn’t knock it over. I told you. I thought I heard something, so I left the room. Someone went in behind me and knocked it over. The lamp was on the table, but the bookshelf was already on fire. Someone set it, and when I came back into the room, they locked the door.”

  “And that is supposed to make me feel better?” he choked. “That someone is trying to kill you? I think I’m losing my mind.”

  It was insane, it was ridiculous, but I watched his mouth and I wanted him to kiss me again. “You look all right to me.”

  He made a sound like a laugh. He let go of me, but he put his palms against the walls over my shoulders, still boxing me in, and leaned hard on them, looking at the floor. I could smell clean wool and starch and warm, faint shaving soap. “I’ve spent the last day beside myself with worry. I made up some ridiculous paper-thin story for Teddy Easterbrook about needing to talk to the vicar just to get back here. As if I give a damn about the vicar, or anything else.”

  “You did?” I said.

  “Jesus, Jillian! I’ve barely been able to focus. And we were at the vicarage, of all places, and we saw the smoke, and you started screaming—” He looked at me, then leaned in and kissed me, swift and hard. “I didn’t think I’d get that door open,” he said when he finished.

  I touched his face, ran my fingers along his cheekbone, touched his lip with my thumb the way he’d done to me. “I broke the lock myself. With a piece of table leg.”

  His gaze darkened at the contact, and I began to wonder just how deeply in trouble I was. “Yes, you did, you bloody brave, brilliant girl. I nearly planted Teddy a facer just for looking at you, you know. He’s insufferable, even if he has his uses. I just couldn’t let on.”

  “I may accept that. I’ll think about it.”

  I thought he might kiss me again, but as I watched, he changed his mind. He seemed to make an effort to pull away from me, his expression settling into a semblance of professional detachment. He dropped his hands from the wall and stood straight, backing away.

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  I stayed where I was, leaning against the wall, and waited.

  “Why were you in the vicarage in the first place?” His voice was calmer now.

  “I wanted to see the archives. My uncle had been to see them.”

  “And did you find anything?”

  My gaze flickered to the table behind him. Sitting next to his hat, which he had tossed there as he came through the door, was the photograph of Elizabeth Price, her sad gaze staring into the distance. Drew hadn’t noticed the photo.

  “Walking John wants to be put to rest,” I answered. “His message is, ‘Make me sleep.’ A previous vicar saw the full message in the sand and recorded it along with the footprints.”

  Drew seemed to take this in for a moment. I saw the memory of that night in the woods cross his expression, then disappear again. “Interesting. And what else?”

  I looked away from the photograph and raised my gaze to his. “Would you like some tea?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  “I want some,” I said. “My throat hurts.” I stepped forward and pushed past him, brushing alongside the table. I scooped up the photo and put it in the pocket of my skirt without looking down.

  “Did you see anyone before the fire started?” Drew asked me.

  “No. Aubrey let me into the vicarage; that was all.”

  “Did you see Mrs. Thorne?”

  I swallowed, realizing for the first time that Aubrey’s wife could have tried to kill me. “I didn’t see her. Was she home?”

  “They were both home. They claim to be horribly upset about what happened. Mrs. Thorne wanted to come here and see you, but we talked her out of it. Teddy is interviewing them now while I’m here interviewing you.”

  I busied myself preparing a cup of tea I didn’t want and had no intention of drinking. My skin was still burning. Drew’s idea of interviewing was an interesting one, but I let it go for now. “It doesn’t make sense that Aubrey would burn his own archives. He spent years collecting the pieces. But it had to be one of them. It must have been.”

  “Not necessarily.” He had turned and was watching me. “When you told us the fire had been set deliberately, I checked the building. If you were in the hall, no one could have come through the front door without your seeing them. But there was a back door as well as a side servants’ entrance that came through the scullery. That means if you were facing the front of the building, someone could have come from behind your back.”

  I stilled. I had noticed nothing. The person, whoever he was, had been completely silent. He, or she, could just as easily have attacked me directly from behind—a bludgeon, perhaps, or a pair of hands around my throat—and I would have died none the wiser. Why bother with fire?

  I gave up and put the kettle down without pouring. My hands were shaking again. “Were any of the doors locked?”

  “Yes, but Thorne keeps the key ring in his greenhouse, hanging on the wall. And the greenhouse wasn’t locked. If someone knew where the key was, he could have let himself in.”

  “So.” My voice was barely a whisper. I tried to stay calm. “You’re saying that anyone at all could have come in one of those doors and set the fire.” I turned to him. “You’re also saying you actually listened to me when I said it was deliberate.”

  He shrugged. “Teddy thought you were hysterical. But it seemed plausible enough to me.”

  “Because you suspect everyone of murder,” I supplied.

  He came toward me, and my heart thumped in my chest. “It’s convenient sometimes, isn’t it?” He was close to me now, and he reached out, his hand brushing my waist. “Now, perhaps we can make a deal that you’ll tell me everything you found in that archive before it burned.”

  “I did tell you everything.”

  “I don’t think so.” His hand moved lower. I tried not to shiver. Then I realized he was sliding his fingers into the pocket of my skirt. He deftly withdrew the photograph and held it up. “You’re a terrible liar, Jillian, and an even worse thief. Who is this?”

  I felt my cheeks flame. I snatched the photograph from his hand before he could look too closely at it. For some reason I wanted to keep Elizabeth Price to myself, at least until I had a better idea of who she was. “That’s none of your concern.”

  “My concern is that you’re keeping things from me.”

  Now I was outraged. “I’m keeping things . . . ? I think it’s the other way around. You’ve kept me in the dark about everything, including the true nature of your investigation.”

  His gaze shuttered. “Ah. That.”

  “Yes, that.”

  “I thought you may have learned something. I could see you were angry with me at the vicarage. Who have you been talking to? Or did your infernal intelligence figure everything out on its own?”

  “My infernal intelligence failed me utterly, in fact. I talked to Edward, and don’t you dare get him in trouble. He was torn enough as it is.”

  Drew sighed, ran a hand through his hair. “Jillian, this is a job. A rather important one this time. In a job, I’m not always free to say what I’d like to.”

  “And Toby’s murder?”

  “Your uncle’s death is part of it, yes. I’m convinced of it. But I wa
sn’t lying about that. I can’t make a case for murder. The Yard doesn’t work on hunches or circumstances. There isn’t enough evidence.”

  “Drew.” My voice would not quaver. It would not. “Someone has just tried to kill me. I don’t know what I’m up against. There must be something you can tell me. Anything at all.”

  He put his hands in his pockets. I watched him wrestle with himself, with the weight of duty and the wish to keep me safe. He looked out the window, thinking. At last he turned back to me with a sigh.

  “All right,” he said. “The first thing we need is a map of England.”

  • • •

  Drew shrugged off his jacket and placed it over the back of a kitchen chair. He loosened his tie, as if preparing for something physical. As I watched the line of his shoulders, he reached into his hanging jacket and pulled a piece of paper from the pocket. “Like so,” he said.

  He spread the paper on the kitchen table. It was a small printed map, England’s distinctive shape in ink. “There’s Plymouth there—see?—and there’s Cornwall. Here we are, here. The tides are dangerous along this coast, and the coastline itself is a challenge, but if you can land a ship, it’s ideal.”

  “Like John Barrow and his smugglers,” I said.

  “Yes, exactly. Most smuggling was based on the east coast, where the waters are better and the trip to France is much shorter. That meant that most of the policing was based there as well. No one much bothered with the west coast here, so many of the smugglers brave enough to try it didn’t get caught. What killed the smuggling trade more than a century ago was the lowering of taxes on imports, which didn’t make it a lucrative business anymore.”

  I crossed my arms. “Let me guess—that isn’t quite the end of the story.”

  “Not quite, no. Wherever you have ships and traffic, you have the potential for illegal trade, and England is all coastline. Smuggling has never exactly gone away. This corridor, along here”—he pointed to the sea along our western coast—“is a major merchant corridor. In fact, it was one of the main targets of German U-boats during the war for that reason. They were trying to strangle our imports by sinking all our merchant ships.”