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

of joy: tall, broad shouldered, slim hipped, sleekly muscled. He wore both the suit and the coat with an ease that bespoke a man who took his physique for granted. He smelled of chill fall air and wool.
    I stepped back and thumped into the wall of the tiny hall. I knew what he saw when he looked at me—a raw, inexperienced girl, barely dressed.
Take hold of the situation, Jillian
. I’d spent too long in a girls’ school, the only men of my acquaintance aged professors and fellow students in home-knitted jumpers. Old men and boys, really.
    “I’m sorry,” I managed. “That wasn’t much of a greeting. I’m not usually so rude.”
    “It’s quite all right,” he said.
    “Would you, ah, would you like tea?”
    “If you have some, yes.”
    I nodded. “Follow me.”
    I led him down the hall, conscious of the fact that I’d been caught in my studying clothes yet again. I was aware of my bare legs and feet, of the hem of my dress brushing the backs of my knees, in a way I hadn’t been in the presence of Mrs. Kates or even Edward Bruton. Likely Inspector Merriken considered me slovenly and unkempt. I wrapped my cardigan more closely around myself as I walked.
    If the inspector thought anything of my appearance, his expression gave nothing away. When we reached the kitchen, he took a seat at the table as I put the kettle back on the hob and found more cups.
    “I’m sorry about your uncle,” he said.
    His tone was quiet and sincere, and I turned my back to him, busying myself with the tea things. “Thank you.”
    “I was in Barnstaple yesterday,” the inspector continued. “I got there shortly after you did, as it happens. I met with the magistrate.”
    “He told me my uncle’s case was an accident,” I said to the dishes I was arranging. “He said it was official.”
    “Yes. He told me the same thing.”
    I set the tea on the table and looked at him. “Then I’m sorry for asking, but why are you here?”
    He had not removed the dark coat, and it folded around him where he sat at the table, the edges of the fine wool spilling off his chair. He had placed his hat on one long thigh, and his hand rested atop it, the fingers spread and graceful. He tipped his head just the slightest degree as he watched me. “Mr. Hindhead was rather concerned about you,” he said by way of reply. “He said you didn’t weep or, indeed, appear the least bit upset. He told me he could only conclude that instilling education in women produces in them a decided lack of natural feeling.”
    I was shocked for only a second, until anger took over. I crossed my arms. “I didn’t realize that viewing my uncle’s body was a test of my decorum,” I said tightly. “I mistakenly thought it was the most horrible experience of my life.”
    The inspector’s gaze held mine. I thought I saw something flicker across it—a flash of approval, perhaps, though I was too angry to care. “Then we are of the same mind about Mr. Hindhead’s opinions.”
    It took me a second to understand what he was saying. Before I could gather myself to form a reply, the inspector tapped the cover of
A History of Incurable Visitations
, which lay along-side the watch on the table before him. “Were these your uncle’s?”
    “Yes.”
    He picked up the book, read the title on the spine. He lowered it again and leaned toward me across the table. “All right, Miss Leigh, let’s be clear. Forget about the magistrate for a moment. Your uncle was an unusual man.”
    I swallowed. “Yes, he was.”
    “Most people, you see, fit some sort of pattern at the heart of it. Your uncle was not one of those people. He was a stranger here, and he had no reason to be on those cliffs. No one knows, or will admit to knowing, who hired him to come here. I cannot quite see the pattern, and it bothers me.”
    My heart pounded in my chest. I had assumed Toby had been here on a job, called here by someone as usual. “But the coroner . . .”
    “The coroner at