An Inquiry Into Love and Death by Simone St. James Page A

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.

Six
    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,