Read Online An Inquiry Into Love and Death by Simone St. James - Free Book Online
Authors: Simone St. James
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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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.
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.
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