An Inquiry Into Love and Death (14 page)

“Jillian, work is the only thing that keeps me going. The only thing. It’s why I have no wife, no family, just a few phone numbers on slips of paper. Because if I stop working, if I let anyone in, if I let anything go, then I lose my grip completely.”

A slice of pain, deft as a needle, went through my heart. But it had been a long night, and I ignored it. Instead I put my hand over his and squeezed. “I don’t know how you bear it,” I said. “The war. I don’t know how you go on.”

“You go on, that’s all. You simply do.”

“My father says the war was a cataclysm created by greed. He says it was a bunch of old men rattling their sabers and planning the deaths of thousands like pawns on a chessboard.”

“Jillian.” His voice had a note of pained amusement. “I don’t give a damn what it was. All I give a damn about is that it’s over.”

But he tucked me closer. I felt the scratch of his rough cheek on my neck.

“Go to sleep,” he said as I closed my eyes, “and I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

I
awoke the next morning alone. Pale dawn light was just faintly visible around the edges of the sealed-off window. I lay staring at the ceiling for a long time, feeling the warmth dissipate from the bed beside me.

Through the quiet hush of early morning, I imagined I heard the faint hum of a motorcar starting and driving away. Drew had parked his motorcar down the lane to avoid suspicion. I closed my eyes, listening. Was it even possible to hear the car from here, or was it wishful thinking? He’d said he would go into the woods this morning. Had he already done it? I wished I’d been awake when he left, wished I could have asked him, wished I could have said . . . But I didn’t know what I would have said.

Sultana leaped onto the bed beside me with silent precision and gave me a reproachful look. I rubbed a knuckle back and forth behind her ear. “I’m sorry,” I said to her. “Your sleeping spot was usurped, wasn’t it?” She closed her eyes and listened as I continued to scratch, but she was still too miffed to purr. “What should I do?” I asked her. “He didn’t tell me why he was going to London, not really. And I don’t even know if he’s coming back. What do I do?”

She had no answer for me. She let me touch her a little longer, her soft fur a comfort, and then she leaped away, waiting to be fed.

I sat up and swung my feet to the cold floor. The light was growing stronger at the edges of the window. I could still feel Drew’s body against my back, his arm around my waist. I could still feel that kiss, that incredible kiss that I suspected had shifted something in me.

I rose to draw a bath and find something for Sultana’s breakfast.

•   •   •

“Well.” William Moorcock leaned back in his chair. He hooked his thumbs in the armholes of his vest, his thoughts ticking wildly behind his gray eyes. “I don’t quite know what to say.”

We were sitting in the kitchen of his small house. It was a tidy room of lace-trimmed curtains, flowered wallpaper, and matching jars of sugar, flour, and oats lined neatly along the sideboard. The big dog, Poseidon, slept soundly in front of the fireplace—his habitual spot, obviously, even though there was no fire lit. The scene was cozy and snug, and the place looked nothing at all like a bachelor’s quarters, though William Moorcock did not seem to have a wife.

“I came here for reassurance,” I said. “If you’re looking for something to say, ‘You’re not mad’ will do.”

He smiled at me. His narrow, clean-shaven face, under its short crop of dark brown hair, was unremarkable—except when he smiled; then it lit with what could only properly be called charm. “All right, then. You’re not mad, and that story was simply
smashing.
”

My mind caught on the word
story
. “It’s true,” I protested.

“Of course it is. And it’s bloody fantastic.” His gaze dropped down to the table between us. “I’ve neglected to eat my pie, I’m so enthralled.”

There was, in fact, an untouched slice of pie on the table. I’d come there unannounced, finding his house from the directions he’d given me when we met, and I’d interrupted him just as he was sitting down to a treat he’d obviously been looking forward to. As I told him the wild story of what had happened to me the past two nights, he’d listened without eating. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve dumped my problems on you. It’s most unfair.”

“Are you sure you don’t want some? My sister is a wonderful cook. She likes to keep me stuffed.”

“I’m certain, thanks.” I looked around. “Is your sister here?”

“No. She lives with her husband. He has a small farm, a little bit of livestock. They have no children, so she needs someone to fuss over. With Raymond gone, I seem to be the candidate.” He picked up his fork, gestured with it to the room around us. “This was our parents’ house; when they died, it came to me. I could never quite bring myself to redecorate it.”

“What happened?” I asked.

His tone was thoughtful. “It was a car crash, while I was in France. They both died instantly. My mother cooked me breakfast in this room the day I went to war, and when I came home she was gone. I think that’s why I’ve never really wanted it changed.”

Somewhere at the front of the house, a clock gently chimed the hour. I couldn’t think of anything to say. “How terribly sad.”

“It is, isn’t it? It’s supposed to be the son who dies at war, not the mother. Raymond got that part right, of course.” The last of his smile faded, and his eyes looked far away. “I sometimes think I’ll see Raymond coming right through that door over there, asking what there is to eat. He was always hungry, Raymond was. Mother said she couldn’t keep the kitchen stocked high enough for him. At least, that’s how it was before he married Rachel. What he ate after that, I don’t really know. There are times, in the evenings, when I think I hear his voice coming from another room, though I can never quite hear what he’s saying. It seems so real sometimes.” He noticed me again and shrugged. “I already told you I say odd things.”

“It isn’t odd,” I said gently, “considering I just told you a story that was completely insane.”

The ghost of a smile came back to his face. “I suppose we’re even, then.” He cut himself a bite of pie and ate it thoughtfully, then looked at me again. “The footprints you saw. Were they longish, and narrow? Prominent depressions at the bones just under the toes? A large gap between the first and second toes, shaped like a V?”

I stared at him, speechless.

He nodded. “Walking John. One of the old vicars drew a sketch of those prints back in the last century—Aubrey has it in his archives, I believe. You really should take a look at it.”

“Is this . . . Does this happen all the time, then? What happened to me?”

He began to cut himself another bite. The pie seemed to be cherry. “No. He goes through long periods of quiet; I’ve no idea why. A few months or a year. I’ve never known what sets him off—probably nothing. This time of year the activity increases, but even then it isn’t predictable. We had two ghost hunters come through here just after the war, while Walking John was in one of his retreats; they couldn’t find a thing. They were nice fellows, too—a man and his assistant, both veterans. Gellis, the man’s name was, a rich chap, and the other one was Ryder. He was moody, that one. They had some first-rate equipment, and I felt a little sorry our local ghost didn’t give them a good show.”

“You sound so casual about it,” I said.

“I realize it’s strange. It’s easy for those of us here to forget. I grew up in Rothewell. I was born here, and so was my father. I spent all my life here, and I trained to be a schoolteacher so I could teach here. I’ve never really wanted to leave. There are a few of us left like me.”

“You teach school?” I asked.

He smiled, with only a little bitterness. “No. I went off to war, and while I was away, they closed the school. There weren’t enough children left for them to run it.” He sighed. “I know I should go somewhere else, but I’ve never wanted to. So here I stay.”

“I met Aubrey Thorne yesterday. He says you two grew up together.”

“Oh, yes, we did. We even went to war together. What a time that was! We were trouble, I tell you. But Aubrey hasn’t been the same these past few years. First he met that Enid woman and went mad to marry her. Then he went and became vicar.” He laughed. “Aubrey, a vicar! What a disappointment.”

“I don’t know,” I said, a little disconcerted that he would refer to his best friend’s wife as “that woman.” “He seems content with it.”

“Perhaps.” He shrugged. “It seems dull to me. How is your thumb?”

I raised my bandaged hand. “All right.”

“Let me have a look at it.”

I hesitated, but he insisted, and in the end I reached across the table. He had just taken my hand and leaned over the palm when a voice came from the front hall. “Will?”

“In here, Annie.”

A woman appeared at the kitchen doorway. She was older than William, but she had his thin build and his narrow chin. Her look, when she caught sight of our pose, was a mix of distaste and alarm. “Oh. Hello.”

William let go of my hand and made introductions. Perhaps I imagined it, but his joviality suddenly seemed a little forced. “Annie, this is Jillian Leigh, who is staying at Barrow House, collecting her uncle’s things. Jillian, this is my sister, Annie Hughes, she of the wonderful cherry pie.”

Annie turned her attention from me and looked at her brother, taking him in with a sharp, critical gaze. “Is she bothering you?”

My mouth opened; I had never heard such a rude question in my life. William only shrugged, not looking at his sister. “No, of course not. Her hand is hurt. She came by to talk about Walking John.”

“That nonsense.” Annie dismissed the local ghost with a snort and turned back to me. “I hope you’re not encouraging him.”

“I may be,” I replied coolly.

Her eyes widened at that. “I see. And are you finished?”

If her intent was to rile me, it worked. I stood and pushed back my chair. “Thank you for the advice, William. I’ll be on my way.”

“Jillian,” he replied softly. He tried a smile, but his good mood had deflated. “Have a lovely afternoon.” He did not look at me as I left.

I walked out into the autumn afternoon. Somewhere on the other side of the house, toward the trees, a man whistled for his dog, but there was no answering bark. I started back to Barrow House, anger speeding my steps.

I was halfway down the lane when I heard my name called. I turned to see Annie Hughes hurrying up the path after me. “Miss Leigh.”

I kept walking. She caught up.

“I need to talk to you,” she said, “about William.”

“It was a neighborly visit,” I said. “There was no reason to chase me away. You needn’t act as if I’m Mata Hari.”

“Miss Leigh, I’m only protecting him. My brother is easily upset.”

“Is he? He seemed just fine to me.”

“With all due respect, my girl, you don’t know him as well as I do.”

I stopped walking and turned to her, suddenly tired. “It’s none of my concern, of course.”

Her eyes blazed; she was a woman on a mission. “That’s true; it isn’t. I’d appreciate if you stayed away from William in the future.”

I shook my head, annoyed again. “You may rule his life, Mrs. Hughes, but no one decreed you would rule mine.”

She followed me as I started walking again. “You don’t understand. William was in the war. He had a fever.”

“Fever?”

“Yes. He got sick while he was in the trenches—headache, chills. They thought he was faking. They didn’t know how sick he was until one day he couldn’t stand and they carried him to the medic. He doesn’t remember anything, so we know only what the doctors said. They told us it was an infection that went to his brain.” Her jaw set in a grim line, one I realized was born of endless months of worry. “He was . . . They said he didn’t know where he was, or even who he was. He couldn’t say his own name. He . . . saw things that weren’t there. Delusional. They never told me in detail what he raved about, and I don’t think I want to know. It’s just merciful he doesn’t remember any of it now.”

“That’s terrible,” I said, thinking of the kind, lonely man I had just left. “I didn’t know.”

“They thought for certain he would die. He lay alone in some foreign hospital for months. Our parents had just passed, and I couldn’t get a ship to France.”

“Of course you couldn’t have. There was a war on.”

“Do you think I cared? I would have gone anyway and nursed him myself. He was my only living blood relative by then. If they’d let me on a ship, I would have gone. When they sent him home, he was different. Fragile. I had to tell him about our parents, about Raymond, because none of my letters had gotten through. I felt like he had just come home from war, and I had shot him myself.”

Grudgingly, I had to admit that her rudeness warranted a little understanding. “You’re protective of him; I see that.”

“He tries, and most days he gets through. But he’s never been able to work,” she said. “It’s too hard on his nerves.”

I frowned. “He told me there were no jobs.”

“Do you see what I mean? Of course there are jobs. He just can’t do them. It’s too much for him. So he tells people there is no work.” She looked away.

Now I felt only pity. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll be careful.”

But she hadn’t softened. “Just stay away,” she said, and turned back down the lane.

•   •   •

The sun had risen to a crisp midday brightness. I took my motorcar down the steep cliff again, following the winding turns at my customary coward’s pace, my foot barely leaving the brake pedal as I descended.

There were a few people out, and they seemed to recognize me as I passed, Rothewell being a quiet town, and my motorcar conspicuous. One man, busy with a rake in front of his house clinging to the hillside, gave me a wave; a boy of about eighteen, riding a bicycle up the hill with a rucksack across his back, pulled aside and touched his cap as I hogged the road on the way down. Once I had passed he must have continued on the ridiculously herculean task of cycling up the road—something only a boy of eighteen would attempt.

I parked in my familiar spot off the end of the High Street and made for Rachel Moorcock’s shop. A figure stood across the street, sitting on the wall where Rachel and I had first met, staring out to sea. It was a man wearing a woolen pea jacket and dark trousers. He wore no hat, and I paused for a moment, recognizing his wheat blond hair. It was the same man I’d seen in the pub on my first morning, watching me from the window.

I wondered now who he could be. Both times I had seen him alone. Was he a local? A tourist? It seemed a strange, cold holiday. He didn’t turn as I passed, and I kept walking.

As I continued down the street, someone touched my arm. I turned to find an elderly woman, well over sixty, in an old-fashioned flowered dress, tendrils of her gray hair blowing in the salty breeze. “I beg pardon,” she said, “but you are Miss Leigh, who is boarding at Mrs. Kates’, are you not?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I thought it was you. You don’t know me, of course. I’m Mrs. Trowbridge, the postmistress. I was just about to send a boy up to you when I saw you walk by.”