The Other Side

by J. D. Robb

  What he was getting, in spite of the oddness of the house, in spite of not having a psychic bone in his body, was a feeling of warmth and comfort. Of home. It was in the graceful proportions of the rooms and in the retreats of nooks and alcoves and unexpected porches. It was even in the comfortable, unmatched furniture, some of it covered with sheets. But mostly, he decided, the feeling came from the light, a soft, pale-gold illumination that bathed every room, upstairs and down. This was a happy house.

  “Skylights,” Miss Darlington said when he remarked on the phenomenon. “Grampa hid them in unexpected places, behind cornices, valances. It was one of his hobbies—playing with light.”

  She showed him the well-stocked library, numerous parlors, a small music room—so small, an ancient grand piano took up most of the space. She ended the tour in the center hall on the second floor, before the double doors to the outside portico. “This is where she dances.”

  “Yes.” He put his hand to his forehead. “I sensed it.”

  “Well, and also, I told you.”

  “Astra feels it, too.”

  Hearing his name, Astra leaned against Henry’s knee and grinned at him. “Tell me about the ghost, Miss Darlington,” Henry said with great seriousness. “Tell me everything. In your own words.”

  “Yes, I thought I’d use mine.” She arranged her face so that it was as somber as his. Lowered her voice. Spoke slowly.

  “It’s always at night. When there’s no moon. She wears white—they say she did in life, too: always dressed in shades of alabaster. Her long yellow hair is always down. Sometimes there’s music. They say it’s a Gypsy violin, and that would make sense. Her lover was a Gypsy.”

  “Who was she?”

  “Lucinda Darlington. My great-great-great aunt, for whom this house was built. In 1801.”

  “Built by whom?”

  “Eustace Darlington, her husband. For a wedding present. He was a wealthy merchant, much older, and she was young and beautiful and gay. Above all, she loved music and dancing—and he forbade both. He tried to make her a prisoner. In this house. But she fell in love—”

  “With the Gypsy violinist.”

  “Yes. They had a mad, passionate affair, made plans to run away. A servant betrayed them—Eustace caught them. On a moonless night.” She stepped to one of the portico doors and pushed it open. “They found her the next day—there. Dead and broken on the ground.” Theatrical pause. “As for Eustace, he went mad and committed suicide. By drinking poison.”

  Henry let a suitable length of time go by. Miss Darlington looked quite splendid in profile, her features sharp-edged and tragic against the sky. “How many people have seen the ghost?” he asked in a stricken tone.

  “Many. And not just Lucinda’s—the Gypsy is buried somewhere on the grounds, and they say all three of them haunt the house.”

  “And do they? You lived here.”

  “Oh, that will be for you to decide, Mr. Cleland. But I’ll tell you this.” Her voice, which had gone low and sepulchral before, went more so now. Her eyes, a deep and gold-flecked gray, snared him in their gaze. “I have seen and heard things in this house that would curl your hair.”

  “Like what?”

  She stared at him a little too long. The heavy, ominous look faltered. “Well . . . if I say, it might influence your impartiality. Wouldn’t it be better to begin your investigations with a completely open mind?”

  She was good. Either that or she believed everything she was saying.

  “Up to a point,” he started to answer, when he heard noises from downstairs—a door opening; voices. Miss Darlington began to pronounce a word he’d have sworn was going to be an extremely unladylike oath, but she cut it off before he could be sure. “Visitors?”

  “My cousin,” she said through her teeth. “Bringing buyers.”

  “Buyers?”

  “I forgot to tell you. Willow House is for sale.”

  Three

  Cousin Lucien’s bulbous, corpulent features looked even more belligerent when he was annoyed, and he was annoyed now. Angie knew he turned a rude “What are you doing here?” or possibly even “What the hell are you doing here?” into a stiff “Angiolina, what a surprise,” only because of the young, prosperous-looking couple he’d brought to look at the house. If she’d been alone, he wouldn’t have bothered introducing her, but he couldn’t very well ignore the presence of a strange man and a dog.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Foster—Miss Darlington. My cousin,” he added grudgingly.

  “How do you do? And this is Mr. Cleland,” Angie said with extra graciousness to make up for Lucien’s lack. More hand-shakes and how-are-yous. “Oh, and this is Astra, Mr. Cleland’s . . . um ...”

  “My ghost dog.”

  Mrs. Foster, who was blond, petite, and by Angie’s estimation at least five months pregnant, covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh dear! Do you mean to say it’s true?”

  Lucien cut off a snarl with a cough. “Of course it’s not true! Ha-ha! The man’s joking.”

  “Not in the least,” said Mr. Cleland. “I’ll show you. Astra! Astra, do you feel something?”

  At once the dog stopped sniffing at Mr. Foster’s pants cuff and went still. His black eyes bulged; his nose lifted in the air. His peeled-back lips revealed a mouthful of stained teeth.

  Mrs. Foster gasped and pressed back against her husband.

  “Oh, for—” Lucien pinched his nose to rein in his temper. “Who are you? What are you doing here? Sir,” he remembered to add; he wasn’t a vice president of Paulton National Bank for nothing.

  “Mr. Cleland,” Angie answered for him, “is an investigator of the paranormal. He’s a ghost detective!”

  Mrs. Foster clutched at her rounded abdomen. “There, there,” said Mr. Foster, patting her shoulder. “My wife is very sensitive.”

  “Come, let’s look at the house,” Lucien said, trying to move them away. “Never mind the elevator, an eyesore, I know, but it can easily be taken out. Unless you like it, in which case it’s quite a handy—”

  “Mr. Cleland uses purely scientific methods in his research,” Angie said. “For which he is world famous. He’s going to study Willow House.”

  “By God, he—”

  “He is, Lucien—Mrs. Grimmett wants him to.”

  “Who?” said Mr. Cleland.

  “Do you really believe the house is haunted?” Mrs. Foster asked him, rubbing her arms as if they were chilled. “We’d heard the rumors, of course, but Walter said it was all foolishness.”

  “It’s too soon to say,” Mr. Cleland said, stroking his clean-shaven chin. “When I’ve finished my experiments, I’ll be able to hazard an opinion. In the meantime, however . . . ”

  “Yes?”

  “In the meantime, relying on my many years of experience and a certain natural intuition, if I may, I would have to say . . . ”

  “Yes?”

  “The environment, the ambiance, a certain something in the aerosphere of the house . . . Yes, I would definitely have to say there is . . . something.”

  Lucien snorted.

  But that was enough for Mrs. Foster. “Terribly sorry—a pleasure to meet you—come, Walter.” Taking her husband’s arm, she made a wide berth around Astra and flew out the door.

  “Who’s Mrs. Grimmett?”

  Mr. Smoak’s Boardinghouse for Gentlemen had a side porch as well as a front porch, the former screened from the street by rangy, never-pruned hydrangea bushes. The furnishings were sparse, just a few pieces of mildewed wicker, and flies and mosquitoes were a nuisance, but what it lacked in comfort the side porch made up for in privacy. Respectable privacy, since it was outdoors and thus, technically, a public place.

  Angie pulled her skirts aside to give Mr. Cleland more room on the damp love seat cushion they were sharing. “She’s the wife of Lucien’s boss at the bank. A great believer in spiritualism. She’s to Paulton what Mrs. What’s-her-name—”

  “Beckingham?”

  “What Mrs. B
eckingham is to Hartford, only more so. Mrs. Grimmett founded ISIPP.”

  “International Society for . . . ”

  “Institute for Scientific Investigation of Paranormal Phenomena.”

  “Oh, yes. Never heard of it.”

  “It’s local.” She stopped petting Astra and turned to face Mr. Cleland. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the house is in foreclosure. I’m not sure why I didn’t, except—well, really, does it matter?”

  “Not to me, and it won’t have any effect on my experiments. But I can see it matters a good deal to you. Maybe that’s why you didn’t tell me. Too painful.”

  He said that so matter-of-factly, she surprised herself by telling him the truth. “It is painful. I love Willow House, and I always have. It’s home. And,” she added more forcefully, “my grandparents meant for me to live there.” Hadn’t they said that to her practically on their deathbeds? “Don’t let that money-grubbing saphead get it,” Grampa had told her, meaning Lucien. And Gramma had said, “We don’t want anyone living here but you, dear. That way it’ll be as if we never left.”

  “What happened? Why didn’t you inherit it?” Mr. Cleland asked.

  “My grandfather . . . ” She felt herself coloring. Why did everything she told Mr. Cleland about Grampa make him sound like such a nincompoop? “He used it as collateral for a loan, to buy equipment for experiments on a new invention. When that didn’t work out, he couldn’t pay the loan back. The bank foreclosed—or my cousin did, I should say, since he is the bank. Practically.”

  “Practically. Fortunately for you, Mr. Grimmett is the bank.”

  “Yes, exactly.” How quickly Mr. Cleland got to the heart of things.

  “Does your cousin want the house for himself?”

  “Lucien? Oh no, he just wants the money.” She jumped up to pace. “And I’m running out of time. I’m afraid he’ll find a buyer before I can pay off the loan.”

  “Pay off the loan? But I thought . . . I assumed . . . ”

  “That I’m broke? I am. But. I have a plan.” And she almost told Mr. Cleland what it was—until she remembered with whom she was dealing. He might not be what she’d been expecting, he might be a good deal smarter, nicer, and much, much more charming, but he was still a ghost detective. “Well, never mind that now,” she said brusquely. “What is your plan, Mr. Cleland? What do you intend to do?”

  “I’ll stay at the house tonight. Move my equipment in, get things set up.”

  “Excellent. Lucien won’t object—he can’t.”

  “Mrs. Grimmett?”

  “Mrs. Grimmett.”

  “Good. So. Leave it to me, Miss Darlington. Astra and I will perform our first experiments this very evening.”

  “Dear Astra.” The dog had been pacing along with her. “What a good boy you are.” She crouched down to ruffle his ears, which he seemed to like. “Your ‘ghost dog,’ ” she said, laughing up at Mr. Cleland. “No ‘investigator’ should be without one.”

  Her confidential grin faded when not only did Mr. Cleland not smile back, he looked offended.

  “Oh—I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to make light.”

  An awkward moment passed, but then he said, “Never mind,” magnanimous again. “A hazard of my occupation.”

  Now she didn’t know what to make of him. Was he fake or wasn’t he?

  “I have to go,” she said, rising. “So do you, in fact—our respective suppers are served at precisely six o’clock, in case you didn’t know.” He walked her around to the front of the house. “May I . . . um . . . count on you?” she asked, keeping the question vague. She wasn’t as certain of him as she had been.

  “You may.”

  “Oh—good.”

  “I will open my mind and attempt to evaluate the atmosphere of the house fully and fairly, with the utmost objectivity.”

  “Of course, but it really would—behoove everyone concerned if you—everyone but my cousin, that is—if you, if your, if it did indeed turn out that there were . . .”

  “I understand completely.”

  “Ah! Good.”

  “And I assure you I shall give the matter my complete, unprejudiced, unbiased attention.”

  Confound the man.

  Four

  The banker cousin must be selling the house furnished, thought Henry, readjusting the pillows against the headboard of Miss Darlington’s four-poster feather bed. This room still had all her furniture, everything but her clothes and most personal belongings. Left behind was a watercolor portrait of her as a young girl—he assumed it was she; same all-seeing level gaze, same privately amused mouth—in what could only be her grandmother’s rose garden. It hung on the wall at the foot of the bed, and he looked at it every time he got stuck for a word on the piece he was trying to write, under his Atticus Bent pseudonym, for Leslie’s Monthly. Since he was almost as tired as he was distracted, he looked at the painting often.

  Somewhere off in Paulton, one of the ubiquitous church bells tolled eleven. Henry stubbed out his half-smoked cigar—what good was a cigar without an accompanying shot of booze? None, and since he didn’t drink anymore, he said to hell with it—and reached down to give Astra a good night pat. Everything was in place, all his ghost-detecting equipment, his cameras. He’d taken a few pictures of moonlight on window glass, and they might or might not look like orbs of spirit energy when he developed them, but tomorrow would be soon enough to get some good mists and shadow apparitions. He yawned, stretched, and blew out his reading lamp.

  Nice bed. He imagined Miss Darlington in it. Something about her appealed to him in spite of the fact that she seemed to have his number. Or . . . maybe that was what did appeal to him, no in spite of about it. She was nobody’s fool. And in his present circumstances, it was flattering to be seen through.

  Also, she had nice ankles. Very small ears. Pretty skin. He fell asleep wondering how long her shiny, dark hair would be if she ever let it down.

  The music didn’t wake up Astra, the world’s laziest terrier, and it only woke Henry gradually, gently, like a whisper in his ear. Piano music. Light as air, a quick, melodic tune. Gypsy music.

  Well, well.

  He’d gone to bed in his underwear, not expecting to have to get up, because he never had before, not once in his year-and-a-half-long career as a ghost detective. Where were his trousers? He fumbled with the switch on the wall, click-click, click-click. Nothing. No electricity.

  Well, well, well.

  “Don’t you hear that?” he complained to Astra, who was finally yawning and stretching, scratching his ear. “You’re not from Calcutta anymore, by the way, you’re from someplace north. You’re from . . . ” Hell if he knew. Have to look it up in a damn atlas.

  Luckily there was a nearly full moon; he didn’t bother lighting the oil lamp. He could see fine. He could even check his . . . check his . . .

  He stopped dead in front of the mirror over the bureau. His skin prickled with a cold that began in his bones and seeped into his blood—until his brain engaged and he started thinking, not just feeling. Scrawled on the mirror were the words:Death stifles not the breath of true love

  All right, she’d come into the room. How, though? Quietly, very quietly; Astra was a lazy cow, but he wasn’t deaf. Then, too, it was her room, so she’d know how, which floorboards creaked, that sort of thing. Still, it was unnerving to think he and his dog had slept through such an intimate invasion.

  He was halfway down the stairs when the music stopped. He sprinted the rest of the way, cursing himself for his slowness. No one in the shadowy foyer. No one in the dark hall. He raced to the music room door, bare feet skidding on the floor, Astra behind him.

  Nothing. Unless she was—no, not inside the piano, and he felt like an idiot as soon as he looked. He tried the light switch—still off. Smart ghost; she must’ve done something to the circuit. Could she have gotten out of this room without him seeing her? Or was there a secret panel? Then he really felt like an idiot. “Secret panel”—
the very words made him cringe. Of course she could have gotten out, and run down the hall to the kitchen, through the back door, out into the yard. She was probably halfway to Lexington Street by now.

  But she wasn’t. She was here. He didn’t intuit it—he heard music again.

  This time a violin. Very versatile ghost. More Gypsy music, in a tragic minor key. Henry crept out into the hall, listening, turning his head to discern the direction. “This is supposed to be your job,” he muttered to Astra, who looked nothing but game and interested—not frightened, not threatened. Which was good. Henry had to admit that was reassuring.

  He followed the music—“haunting” was really the only word for it—back the way he’d come, to the front of the house. It seemed for a moment, as he stood in the spacious hall, to come from everywhere. Then it stopped.

  He thought at first it was his imagination that things were getting brighter, or maybe he thought the moon was coming out from behind a cloud. But no, this light slowly grew stronger from above, from upstairs, it came from . . .

  He froze, one foot on the first stair tread. The dancing ghost swayed above him as if in thin air, and the light seemed to shine through her slender body. Certainly it shone through the thin white—alabaster—robe or billowy dress she wore, so that he could see . . . just about everything.

  Afterward he would tell himself that that was what kept him motionless for so long, simply the pleasure of beholding a lovely naked lady, dancing. But the more complicated truth was that he could not have moved if he’d wanted to. For the length of time the apparition turned and bent and arched so gracefully, long blond hair rippling to her waist, her arms ethereal, like pale scarves floating in an unseen breeze, he honestly didn’t know if she was real or not.

  Only after the unearthly light dimmed and finally disappeared was he able to move. And by then it was too late. He and Astra—whom he’d completely forgotten about; what was his excuse for doing nothing?—rushed up the steps to find the hall . . . empty.