Read Online An Inquiry Into Love and Death by Simone St. James - Free Book Online Page A

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.”

Seven
    I did not believe in ghosts. Of course I didn’t—no sane person believed in ghosts.
    I believed in Oxford, and cobblestoned squares, and old bricks thick with ivy, and rainy days curled up reading books. I believed in my mother’s strong coffee and in the lonely, aching scent of early dawn before anyone else in my boardinghouse was awake. I believed in my favorite men’s cardigan and the way the wind felt on the back of my neck. I believed in life as it lay before me, spinning out slowly, day after day of warm springs and thunderstorms and laughter. These were the things I believed in.
    And yet, for a few long moments as I’d talked to Rachel Moorcock, sitting on the stone wall, looking at the cliffs as the clouds lowered over the water, Rothewell had seemed just the place where ghosts would dwell.
    •   •   •
    I returned to Barrow House as the clouds threatened rain. I had just finished putting away the extra food when a commotion sounded in the back garden—the bark of a dog, deep and heavy, but pitched with excitement; the shouts of a man; and a wild, outraged screech that could only have come from a cat. I opened the back door to see what was going on.
    The barking was coming from the other side of the garden wall. I had made my way only partway toward it when something streaked past me, fast and low to the ground. A stripe of orange, black, and white disappeared through the open kitchen door behind me and into the house.
    The barking had not ceased; a large, shaggy brown and white head appeared over the garden wall, accompanied by two massive front paws larger—and much muddier—than my own hands. The head barked again, and slobbered like a predator, but its eyes were the soft, dark brown of a beast who, in the excitement