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

a snap, and looked up at me.
    “You suspected me of murder?” I said.
    “I suspect everyone of murder,” he replied. “Where was your uncle’s room?”
    •   •   •
    Toby had taken the master bedroom, which featured a double bed of unpolished brass, a few thin blankets, a dresser, and an old writing desk. The bed was made, a few of Toby’s clothes tossed carelessly on it. A shaving mirror was propped on the dresser, next to a tray containing his other shaving items. A toothbrush, a comb. None of this was remarkable.
    The window and the suitcases were remarkable.
    The window, by my calculation, looked over the front of the house. But there was no view through it, for behind the heavy, drawn curtains we could see that the glass was blocked. The inspector pulled one of the curtains back. Someone—Toby—had taken a wool blanket from the linen cupboard and nailed it into the four corners of the wooden window frame. Then he had covered the dark square with the heavy curtains, which he had fastened shut.
    The effect was one of sinister gloom. The sunlight only barely penetrated, and the details of the room were hard to see, as if we were in a watercolor painting.
    “Hmm,” said the inspector. “Perhaps your uncle had insomnia. There are people who can’t sleep unless they’re in total darkness.”
    I said nothing. I stared at the window, my stomach sinking. It seemed to stare back at me. It made me think of the scratching at my window last night, that long, slow sound, and I pushed the thought away.
    Inspector Merriken moved on to two large suitcases that were stacked against the wall. They looked heavy; the smaller one was on top of the larger one, and the writing desk had been pushed out of the way to make room. The suitcases were far too big to contain clothing, unless Toby had a wardrobe that would put a Hollywood actor to shame.
    I moved over to the inspector’s shoulder as he unlatched the top one and lifted the lid. We both stared down into the case. Then the inspector picked up the carefully packed objects there one by one, removing them from their dark velvet lining.
    “A clock,” he said. “No, two clocks—one is a stopwatch. A thermometer. An electric torch and a spare. A compass. A measuring tape. Canisters of film . . .”
    “Ghost-hunting tools,” I said. “This is my uncle’s ghost-hunting kit.”
    His eyes caught mine for a second. “Are you certain?”
    “It must be,” I said. I pointed to the items one by one. “A clock to note when the sightings appear. A stopwatch to time them. A thermometer to measure air temperature changes. A torch for nighttime work, and a spare in case the first is broken. As for the film . . .” I looked around us. “The camera is in a case next to the bed, over there. To try to capture the ghosts on film, of course.”
    He looked back down into the case, perplexed. “I’ve never seen anything like this before. You have a rather interesting family.”
    “Thank you.”
    He touched some of the items again, brushing his hand over them as if they could tell him something, as absorbed as a dog on a scent. Then he shut the lid. “Has anyone else been through the house since your uncle died?”
    I shook my head. “The landlady told me she doesn’t even have a key. She’s lost her copy.”
    “And have you touched anything? Gone through his belongings?”
    “No.”
    He hauled the smaller of the two cases off the larger one and onto the bed, then opened the larger case. This one we stared at for even longer, trying to figure out—at least on my part—what the thing could be.
    It was a single object, carefully placed in a case that was obviously custom-made to transport it. There seemed to be a large metal base, a battery, knobs. Protruding from the top of the inexplicable thing was a metal gauge etched with numbers, measured by a long, narrow needle.
    “What in the world is it?” I said.
    “It’s hard to tell in this light.” He opened the