An Inquiry Into Love and Death Read online

  I made a sound that was almost a laugh. “I’ve already been, and you’re right. I don’t know who could bear to do anything out there—but that must be the answer.”

  “I don’t like the way you’re looking right now,” he admitted. “It makes me worry. Are you going to be all right?”

  This time I did laugh. “Is that why you’ve been checking on me so regularly? Because you’ve been worried I’d get caught up in all this?”

  “Of course.” He reddened a little. “I didn’t think I was so obvious.”

  “I was starting to fret that you were sweet on me, you know.”

  Now he reddened fully, as embarrassed as I’d ever seen a grown man. “Miss Leigh . . . that is . . . not that you aren’t a beautiful woman and all. You are very lovely. It hasn’t escaped my notice or . . . that is . . . If I’ve given the wrong impression, I didn’t mean to. I must apologize. I don’t want to lead you to think—”

  “You mean you aren’t?”

  He shoved his hands deeper in his pockets and looked as if he wished he were anywhere else in the world. “I don’t—er. There is someone I am already promised to. Promised myself, that is, even if she hasn’t said yes yet.”

  And suddenly I knew. “Rachel.”

  He didn’t even seem surprised. “Yes. I don’t have much money, not after my father lost everything. She has her boy to support, and her sick father, too. She was torn up when her husband died; for a long time she couldn’t even think about remarrying. She hasn’t agreed yet—but I’ve been working hard to rebuild my finances, and I’ve tried to get to know Sam, you know. Rachel won’t marry any man her boy doesn’t like. But I’m hoping she’ll say yes. And I’m waiting. For as long as it takes, I’m waiting.”

  It was a moment before I could say, “She is a very, very lucky girl.”

  He shrugged. “I’m not much to look at; I know that.”

  “Is that what you’re worried about? She’d be mad, absolutely mad. Grow your beard like a Viking, toss her over your shoulder, and carry her away. And please stop worrying about me—though I very much appreciate it.”

  “All right. I must get back to my rounds.” He put on his hat. He stopped at the kitchen door just before leaving and looked back at me. “I’m not going to stop worrying, you know. So please be careful.” He smiled, still shy. “But the Viking thing I’ll consider.”

  Twenty-two

  I know you’re not a ghost hunter like your uncle was,” said Aubrey Thorne. “But I’ve always thought that if any place was ever haunted, it must be the vicarage.”

  We were crossing the well-kept lawn, away from Thorne’s ramshackle greenhouse. The church stood low and dignified at the end of the village, the small cemetery spread out before it like an apron. It was not a showy church, but it still assumed its place as the most prominent structure in Rothewell with the ease of a lady who knew she had centuries of breeding behind her.

  “Have you ever seen anything there?” I asked.

  “No, not at all. But the church dates back to 1544, and the vicarage shortly after. A building that old must have ghosts, don’t you think? Sinners, penitents, mad old priests. Someone. When you see the inside, you’ll see what I mean.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. I was doing rather a good impression, I thought, of someone who didn’t have grave suspicions about her conversational partner. “I thought the house you live in with your wife is the vicarage.”

  “They both are. We live in what’s called the new vicarage—though it’s not that new, really. The original vicarage is on the other side of the church, over here. It’s terribly tiny and gloomy, but the vicar of Rothewell did in fact live there until the nineteenth century, when a predecessor of mine—I’ve looked him up; his name was Henry Thomas—had the current house built in 1801.” He smiled at me from his long, friendly face. “Thank goodness for Henry Thomas, or so I fervently believe. When you see the old vicarage, you’ll see what I mean.”

  The old vicarage was just past the graveyard, and it was long and low and built of stone. Leaves from the overhanging oaks rained down onto the slate roof, decorating it in yellow and brown, and piled in drifts by the walls. The old mullioned windows were thick and narrow, and the front door with its large, carved knocker was dark and imposing.

  The inside opened onto a cramped front room into which very little light made its way. There was no furniture except a dusty old sofa, and an unused fireplace took up much of the outside wall. The air was chill and damp, smelling of something abandoned and unused. The wooden floors creaked under our feet.

  “This is the common room, the one used to entertain,” said Aubrey. “The other rooms down the hall are in even worse shape. Unfortunately, you’ll have to abide one of them, as I keep my little archive in the library.”

  “Why here?” I asked, thinking of the librarians at Oxford, who would faint at the thought of putting even one of the Bodleian’s precious books in this damp, moldy place.

  “I’ve unlimited room in this building,” he said, “that I don’t have in the house. My wife, Enid, doesn’t much like the dirt and the dust of all the old papers—not to mention the space they take. The greenhouse is too wet, and the church doesn’t seem the right place somehow.” He shrugged. “This just seems like the best location. I’m the only one who uses it; it’s secure; it’s dark. And if there were ever to be a fire, next to the church this would be the last place to burn.”

  “All right. I’ll appreciate the benefits of your nasty old vicarage.” I shifted the bag I carried on my shoulder; I’d brought a notebook and pencil. “Where do I start?”

  He laughed and picked up a candleholder on a low table by the door, along with a book of matches. I watched him as he lit the candle. His face carried nothing suspicious, no emotion but a pleasant willingness to help.

  “Follow me,” he said, and took me through the back of the room to a decrepit hallway. He opened one of the doors and showed me through to a room being used as a library. It featured a wooden table and chair, two bookshelves, and a mismatched cabinet. An unlit oil lamp sat on the desk. There was only one narrow window, shuttered, with muted, shady light barely coming through the slats.

  “I don’t suppose you know what you’re looking for,” Aubrey said.

  “Not exactly, no.”

  “Well, these are the books over here—no one has yet written a history of Rothewell, but there are histories of the area and such. In here”—he gestured toward the cabinet—“are the original papers I’ve collected. Mostly letters, a great many from my predecessors in this office, as well as a few journals. There are photographs as well. Most of them I’ve identified and cataloged as best I can. There are a few wonderful old maps in there I think you’ll like.”

  I tried to think of something polite to say. “You should write the history of Rothewell yourself.”

  His expression closed, and he looked away. “Yes, well, someday perhaps. Do you have everything you need, then?”

  “Yes, I think so. Where do you keep the parish register?”

  “Ah. That’s kept at the church. Would you like to see it?”

  “Not today, no.” The register was the real record of a place. It listed all births, deaths, and marriages in its official list. It was the vicar’s job, as the one performing christenings, marriages, and funerals, to keep the records. I had wondered whether Toby had wanted to look at it for some reason.

  “I’ll leave you, then. I’ll light the lamp. Please remember to douse it before you leave; that’s all I ask. If you need me, I’ll be in the greenhouse. Otherwise, I’ll be back in an hour or two.”

  The door shut with a click behind him, and in the resulting quiet, alone amid the gloom with only an oil lamp for light, I began to see what he meant about ghosts. This was a perfect place for them: very old, abandoned, and run-down. Even in the low light I could see the stains of mold on the
upper walls. Despite Aubrey’s excuses, this was no place for a proper archive.

  I waited a long moment, listening—and, perhaps, waiting to see whether the hairs on the back of my neck would stand up. They didn’t, so I set to work.

  I started with the bookshelves, reading the spines. The books were old and mostly dull. Still, Toby had been in this room, looking for something. I let myself read the titles one by one, letting the information sift, trying to see what he could have been seeking.

  The only strange thing I found was a cheap, modern edition of the Book of Common Prayer, the gilt lettering on its cover flaking, the kind that could be bought at any common paperback stand, tucked on the shelf among all the old books. It seemed an unlikely thing to keep in a treasured archive, but when I opened it and leafed through the pages, I saw nothing unusual.

  I moved to the cabinet next. There were journals, mostly belonging to past vicars, though not many; Aubrey’s predecessors had not been great writers. A few bundles of letters were present, and I noted with horror that catalog labels had been pasted directly onto some of the fragile old letters with glue. Aubrey Thorne was not much of a historian.

  I glanced through the letters, but they were also from past vicars and seemed to address the terribly everyday business of ecclesiastical life: weather; politely worded gripes to bishops about the lack of new candlesticks, or leaking ceilings; pleas for money to restore the churchyard or to replace an assistant. I was beginning to get frustrated when I found a bundle labeled, Stephen S. Williams, vicar 1829–1835. These letters were entirely different.

  The vicar Williams, whoever he had been, was preoccupied with the problem of Walking John. He’d written the bishop complaining of nighttime noises frightening the villagers, damaged fences, barking dogs, and terrified chickens. He asked for ecclesiastical help, which the bishop—or the bishop’s assistant—declined. I wondered what kind of help the bishop could be called upon to give. Church investigators, perhaps, or even an exorcist?

  The pleas from Williams did not stop coming, however, and Williams seemed convinced his parish was being “most grievously harassed by a hellish spirit.” Finally the vicar made his own brave expedition into the woods to Blood Moon Bay at night, in an attempt to gather evidence, which he then sent to the bishop in a final plea for help.

  I admired the man’s courage and his dedication to his flock. But the letter he’d written, with the evidence he’d collected, made me stop cold.

  It was a drawing of the footprints I’d seen in the sand. I remembered William Moorcock mentioning that there was such a drawing in the archives. It was a remarkably good sketch, accurate and well drawn. The footprints were narrow, with a heavy depression at the base of the toes, and a large gap between the first and second toes. They were exactly the same as the ones I’d seen only the other night, almost a hundred years later.

  But it was not just the drawing that left me staring, unable to believe what I was looking at.

  It was the writing.

  John Barrow had left his message ninety years ago, and that time, it had not been washed away.

  The vicar had sent the drawing and the message to the bishop, claiming it proved the need for an exorcist to be sent right away. For the message, powerful in its simplicity, was written in three simple words: MAKE ME SLEEP.

  My hand shook as I read the letter. John Barrow did not haunt Rothewell out of malevolence, or a wish for revenge, or an impetus of evil. John Barrow wanted to be with his son, to have someone make it end for him, to make it be over.

  With sudden certainty I knew that Toby had found this same letter. Toby had learned what Walking John wanted. And Toby, being a ghost hunter by trade, would have looked for a way to give him rest.

  Could that have been it? Could that have been why someone wanted to kill Toby? But how could that be?

  After the last letter featuring the drawing and the message, Stephen Williams had been removed from Rothewell and given another living, and no exorcism had ever been performed. Most people in town moved into the center of the village, where the ghost didn’t go. Over the years, the houses closest to the woods—with the exception of Barrow House—had been torn down. So had Rothewell made its uneasy truce with its resident boggart.

  There were photographs in the cabinet, some pasted onto pages and labeled, others still in careless piles. The labeled ones were of Rothewell itself, dating back to the beginning of the century. There were pictures of the seashore, the High Street, the view down the steep road to the water. It seemed that someone, in those early days, had invested in a camera and gone shooting, and Aubrey had ended up with the photos, which he had assembled into a historical record.

  The unsorted photos were of people. Either Aubrey didn’t care to catalog people or he hadn’t had the time to do it, for these were in a messy pile—part of a bequest, perhaps, or a collection he had bought. I looked through them quickly, taking in the ladies in their Gibson girl hairdos and high-necked blouses, the men in their severe whiskers and dark hats. Some were casually posed outdoors, others taken inside before a background of rough canvas in what looked like an amateur photographer’s studio.

  I stopped.

  A woman looked out at me from the photograph I held, her black hair tied up demurely, her chin and shoulders uncertain, a pose that looked just a little reluctant. Her face was angled slightly away, and her large, dark eyes were hooded, as if, at the moment the shutter clicked, she was pondering something a little bit sad. She was pretty, young, slender, and seemingly unsure of herself.

  She looked like me.

  There was no mistaking it. Even with her different hairstyle and slightly longer nose, she looked very much like me. I flipped the photograph over, hoping for an inscription or any indication of who she was, but there was nothing.

  Elizabeth, Rachel’s father had called me. And Mrs. Trowbridge, the postmistress: You really do look like her. She died a long time ago. Her name was Elizabeth.

  I hesitated for a long moment, then slipped the photograph into my pocket. Aubrey hadn’t even cataloged these pictures; he wouldn’t miss this one. I doubted it was a coincidence that the girl in the picture and I looked alike. She must be a relative, though I had never heard my parents speak of one. An aunt? A great-aunt? The photo was undated, but the girl’s style put it only about fifteen or twenty years ago.

  But if my resemblance to this Rothewell girl was no coincidence, it tugged at me uneasily that Toby’s coming to this place—specifically to Rothewell—was not a coincidence either. He had written her name in his journal. Elizabeth. The pieces were beginning to fall into place, though I knew I was missing much of it. The answer was tantalizingly out of reach.

  Drew could help, I thought, if I could find him.

  As I put the letters back in the cabinet, I wondered how long I had been in here—not long, though it felt like ages. I wondered when Aubrey would return for me. I stood back and looked around the room, and then I noticed something.

  The bookshelf was dusty. I had seen the dust as I had read through the spines of the books, but it was only as I stepped away and observed the shelf as a whole that I saw the pattern. The dust had been smeared and disturbed on every shelf, in front of every book, as if each had been removed and replaced one by one.

  I’d removed only one of the books myself, the Book of Common Prayer. I thought of what Aubrey had told Drew and me: that when Toby had visited the archives a second time, Aubrey had left him alone. He hadn’t known on that occasion what Toby had been looking for.

  Perhaps my uncle had ransacked the books. But why?

  Through the door I heard the distinct sound of a click.

  I went to the door. It swung open easily, revealing the dark, empty hall. “Mr. Thorne?” I said. “Aubrey?”

  I stepped out into the hall, blinking into the darkness. The oil lamp still burned in the archive room, and I had no candle. I
moved down the hall toward the old sitting room, one hand on the wall to guide me and one before me like a blind person. The light grew as I came to the end of the hall, sunlight coming through the high windows of the room.

  There was no one here. No other sound came, and there were only cobwebs to keep me company. I’d go back and get the lamp and get out of here.

  I blinked. There was more light now, brighter light, harsher. It flickered against the gloomy wall.

  No. I whirled and ran back to the archive room, which now emitted a reddish glow. A strangled sound came from my throat. The oil lamp was overturned, the desk burning. The flames were climbing up the bookshelf, consuming the dusty old books with hideous speed. Aubrey Thorne’s archive was on fire.

  I ran to the cabinet, which was still untouched, and wrenched it open. Perhaps I could save some of the journals and letters, the photographs—

  I had pulled papers to my chest, clutching them like an infant, when I heard the door thump shut behind me.

  Twenty-three

  Part of me insisted it couldn’t be real. As I struggled with the door, which refused to open, as the flames fed their way through the bookshelf and toward the papers I’d dropped to the floor, as my eyes began to smart and sting, part of me believed it wasn’t happening. I simply could not be trapped in a small room that was on fire. Hadn’t this happened in a serial I’d seen at the cinema?

  The door was hopeless, obviously locked, though I’d never seen a key. I bruised my hands shaking it, jarring it, hitting it for all I was worth. I screamed and screamed for help. I was slick with sweat that ran into my eyes.

  This would be the last place to burn, Aubrey Thorne had said. He was right; the room itself, the old stone walls, would not burn. But the books, the shelves, the old dry papers, even the wainscoting would burn quite merrily indeed. There was not a single vent for the smoke. I’d suffocate long before the fire burned itself out.