Read Online Butterflies (The Secret Casebook of Simon Feximal) by Kj Charles - Free Book Online Page B

you down and you shall have a plate.’
    I would have turned away. My injured pride and his less than warm welcome both stung, and in truth, more than my pride had been hurt. To have shown the tenderness that Feximal had demonstrated that night, the second time, the murmurs of endearment, the gentle touches, and then to walk away from me – that had felt like a lie. Like a promise made and not kept. Like a cruelty.
    Two things stopped me from rejecting the offered seat and taking my meal elsewhere. The first was that he was surely here for the same reason I was, the inexplicable butterflies, and I was determined to have that story. If Simon Feximal, ghost-hunter, discovered anything to do with this mystery, I intended to make it worth three columns of the Chronicle’s paper, with a byline.
    The second was that, though his greeting had hardly been a welcome, he had called me Robert.
    I sat. Feximal looked at me, deep-set eyes unreadable, waiting. I arranged my napkin. He put the side of his fork through a hard piece of pie crust, shattering the pastry into shards and crumbs.
    Someone would have to speak first, unless we were to sit here in silence for the next hour. It was inevitable that the someone should be me.
    ‘You’re here about the butterflies?’
    ‘And so are you, I take it.’ I had forgotten how deep his voice was. It seemed to vibrate in my chest as he spoke.
    ‘For the Chronicle,’ I said. ‘Have you been called by a private individual, or the police, may I ask? Or are you here on your own account?’
    He gave me a grim look in place of a reply. Whether his discomfort sprang from his habit of secrecy or our previous connection, I could not tell. The landlady arrived at that moment with a laden plate for me, and Feximal took the opportunity for a forkful of pie, avoiding an answer.
    As if that would work on a man whose trade was questions. ‘Have you learned much of interest?’ I enquired.
    Feximal swallowed, with some annoyance. ‘Mr Caldwell, are you intending to pump me much longer?’
    The double meaning – very clearly not intended – rang in the air. I saw a slight flush stain his cheeks as he realised it, and my own riposte was so obvious, it barely needed to be said. I said it anyway. ‘Turn and turn about, Mr Feximal.’
    Feximal put down his fork. ‘You’re angry.’
    ‘No,’ I responded automatically, then, ‘Yes. Yes, I am.’
    ‘I had no intention of insulting you.’
    ‘When you waived your fee in consideration of services rendered?’
    Feximal reached for a piece of bread, tearing it with his strong fingers, not looking at me. ‘That was not my meaning. I did not think of – that evening professionally. I prefer to remember it as personal.’
    ‘Oh.’ I felt my face turning hot. I had put the worst possible interpretation on his behaviour. It had not even occurred to me to consider the best. ‘Oh. I thought...’
    ‘I gathered what you thought.’ His stern mouth relaxed, just slightly. ‘I can see why you are a journalist. You have a gift for self-expression.’
    Now I knew I was scarlet, thinking of that cursed note I had sent him. ‘I must apologise – ’
    ‘You must not. If you misunderstood me, that was my fault.’ He looked for a moment as if he would say more, then turned his eyes to his plate, dropping the crumbled bread sops into the plentiful gravy. He resumed eating, and I followed suit, not quite sure what to say now, feeling a flare of quivering excitement. Surely, if he wanted no more of me, he would have allowed me to dwell in my misapprehension. Was there, perhaps, a second chance?
    I had no grand dreams, I need hardly say. I had spent a few hours in his company, during which I could count on one hand the number of his smiles. I had no illusions that there would be more than a repeat of our first encounter – ideally, without supernatural interference this time – since I could not imagine what this strong, remote man would want from me other than