An Inquiry Into Love and Death (5 page)

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.

A
n 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.”

“My father was his only brother.”

“And you’ve come here to handle things?” Her eyes flicked over me again, and I realized I was seeing curiosity, politely contained.

“Yes. You speak of my uncle as if you knew him.”

“He came to the store for supplies. Papa liked him.”

I felt a low hum of excitement at finding someone who could tell me about Toby, who could perhaps help me fill in the gaps. “Did he talk to you about what he was working on?”

She tapped the ash from her cigarette. “I’m not certain I know what you mean.”

“Well, there’s no other way to say it, I suppose. I’m not sure if he mentioned it, but my uncle was interested in ghosts.” Inspector Merriken had told me to do research, so I may as well try. “I think he was here looking for your local ghost, Walking John.”

She looked at me. Her eyes were a lovely hazel color, gray and green in the shifting light. Her expression was carefully contained and hard to read—suspicion, amusement, world-weary tolerance, and a touch of fear. “Looking for Walking John?” She put a slight emphasis on the word
looking
, as if it were something no normal person would do.

“Yes.” I was rather embarrassed. “He was . . . that is, some would call him a ghost hunter. I think it’s why he was here. Did he ever talk to you about it?”

“I see. No. He didn’t talk to me very much. He came by one day when I’d put Papa outside in his chair to get some sunshine. He did sit with my father for a while, chatting, which I thought was kind. If your uncle came looking for ghosts, he came to the right place.”

“Are you saying Rothewell is haunted?”

“Not the town proper.” She gestured with her cigarette. “The woods, and the bay over the other side of the cliffs. People in the farthest houses by the woods hear things. Are you staying at Barrow House?”

I was suddenly cold. “Yes.”

“They say no one stays there long, though I think it’s a bit of claptrap, and I’ve lived here all my life.” She took a drag. “People don’t stay there long because it’s a boardinghouse.”

“I see,” I said faintly.

“My father says Walking John was an old smuggler; that’s why he haunts the cove. That there are strange lights in the woods from the old smugglers’ lanterns. It’s why the sailors haven’t gone into the bay in centuries, because Walking John overturns the boats. Especially at this time of year.”

I leaned toward her, interested despite myself. “This time of year?”

“Autumn. October. Coming up to All Souls’ night, when the dead walk among the living.”

I remembered something of the folktales, of leaving food and drink on the table for the dead when they came in the night. “And have you ever seen the lights? The ones in the woods?”

She shook her head, not in a negative, but to indicate the conversation was over. She had finished her cigarette and she tossed the butt to the ground, stepped on it. “Every child in Rothewell grows up with Walking John,” she said. “‘Behave, because Walking John carries off naughty children. If you lie or steal, Walking John will know.’
I’ve used it on my own son, I admit.” She gave me a tired smile. “I wouldn’t go looking for lights in the woods for all the gold in the treasury, and then some.”

“Who else might my uncle have spoken to?” I asked.

“The vicar, perhaps. He’s our local historian in Rothewell. If your uncle wanted to know about Walking John, he’d likely start there.”

“I see. Is there anyone else?”

“William Moorcock, I suppose. He fancies himself an expert.” I noted the name was the same as her own, but I didn’t ask, as a note of bitterness entered her voice as she spoke it. “He lives at the top of the hill—near Barrow House.”

I thanked her, but my uncertainty must have shown on my face, because she gave me a sympathetic look as she turned to go.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “He doesn’t usually bother strangers. Good luck, but I must get back to the store.”