The Other Side

by J. D. Robb

  When she smiled, her kisses tasted even sweeter. “Oh, you look it.”

  “What if I were?”

  “Were what?” She caressed his cheek with her fingertips, dreamy-eyed again.

  “Someone you could—be with. Stay with. What if I were that kind of man?”

  “But you’re not, Baronet Spenser.”

  “But if I were.”

  “Oh, then.” She took his hand and held it to her lips for a long time. “Then I would be quite the lucky girl, wouldn’t I?” The faintest trace of sadness in her voice said she didn’t believe it, though.

  He surrounded her face with his hands and came so close, their noses touched. “Let’s get this séance behind us and start over. Start all over—I’ll leave town and come back. And everything I say will be the truth.”

  “Oh, my. Wouldn’t that be something?”

  Again, though, he could tell she didn’t believe it. He’d just have to show her.

  Eleven

  Angie felt a raindrop on her wrist and quickened her pace. She was almost home, just two more blocks to Mrs. Mortimer’s. Would a rainstorm be good for the séance tonight? Thunder would certainly enhance the dramatic atmosphere, but flashes of lightning might reveal too much. Such as the fact that a certain “ectoplasmic manifestation” was a ball of netting suspended from the ceiling trolley with wires. And many other ingenious phenomena, not the least of which was the fact that the dancing ghost would really be Angie in her nightgown, spookily illuminated by a portable electric hand torch.

  Everything was ready. She’d just left Henry at Willow House tacking a black metal plate onto the toe of his shoe, the better to make rapping sounds under the table. Well . . . actually, she’d left him holding her in his arms and kissing her. Something they’d done quite a good deal of in the last two days. Quite a good deal. She was still in a daze from their good-bye embrace.

  Never in her life, despite all she’d seen and heard in her profoundly irregular childhood, never in her least inhibited dreams had she imagined how enjoyable the . . . the pleasures of the flesh could be. Henry had made the most improper suggestion this afternoon, straight-out, no flowery figures of speech to dress up the blunt meaning. And instead of feeling insulted, she’d melted. Almost melted—she’d come to her dizzy senses at the last second and told him she wasn’t quite that unconventional a girl. But that she wished she were.

  They’d laughed—they did a good deal of that, too—but with a mutual edge of frustration this time. The situation couldn’t go on. What kind of girl was she? What kind of girl was he turning her into? Shocking, but also thrilling, to think she might soon find out.

  In front of Mr. Smoak’s house, she was about to cross the street to Mrs. Mortimer’s when Smoak himself darted out the front door and accosted her. “Miss Darlington!”

  “Mr. Smoak! What’s wrong?”

  “Someone’s broken into Mr. Cleland’s room—he’s been robbed!”

  “Robbed!”

  “I think so! Should I call the police? The lock on the door is broken, everything’s tossed about—it must be a robbery!”

  “Goodness. Yes, I suppose you’d better call them, then.”

  A little old lady of a man, Mr. Smoak rubbed his hands together, pink face crinkled with alarm. “This is terrible. Nothing like it has ever happened before. I run a respectable house!”

  “Of course you do. Maybe it’s nothing—an accident, a misunderstanding.”

  Mr. Smoak didn’t look reassured.

  Curiosity is a powerful motivator. Wasn’t it what had inspired her grandfather to invent things? When Mr. Smoak trotted back into his house to call the police, Angie went around the side and up the back stairs. To investigate.

  In truth, she’d always wanted to see Henry’s room. Not like this, though. From the look of it, someone had used a crowbar to break the lock on the door, and inside everything was topsyturvy, drawers open, bedsheets askew, his clothes thrown about willy-nilly. Papers everywhere. A burglary? But then why not steal his most, really his only valuable possession—his typewriter? There it was, a Caligraph New Special No. 3, sitting on the pine desk under the window. It still had a piece of paper in the platen. She went closer to read: Should the Nation Own the Railways?

  By Dexter C. Broome

  (for Atlantic M’ly?)

  and then a paragraph and a half about whether we should nationalize the rail system.

  Who in the world was Dexter C. Broome?

  She found more essays and articles scattered on the floor, all typed by the Caligraph: “The Irrigation Problem in the South-west,” by Seymour Bixby; “Great Plains Heroine,” by Helen A. Buchanan; “An Afternoon at the General Store,” by Billy Ray Bobbick. Even a poem, “Evening Falls Over the Hiawatha” by Miss E. L. H. And magazines and journals scattered about—North American Review, Harper’s Weekly, The Critic.

  Was Henry a writer? And if so, why did he use other people’s names?

  Not much else to see in the chaos. He used Dr. Caswell’s Tooth Powder. His comb was missing several teeth. His only spare pair of shoes had recently been resoled. If he had any photographs of loved ones, they weren’t visible, and she was not the kind of girl to snoop. Or so she told herself as she backed out of the room and tiptoed down the back stairs, not anxious to encounter Mr. Smoak again. Or the police.

  She’d wanted to see Henry’s room in hopes of unraveling the mystery of him, but all she’d done was tie it tighter.

  “I’m not saying I don’t understand the attraction,” Norah Hersh murmured behind the cup of tea she held to her lips. “Appreciate it, even. Heavens. Look at him.”

  Angie was already looking at him. Maybe it was the way Henry had combed his hair tonight, straight back from his high, handsome forehead, that made him look not only magnificent (in her completely unbiased opinion) but also somehow Mephistophelian. She assumed the effect was deliberate, and that he knew what he was doing. Mrs. Grimmett certainly appreciated it—she was practically drooling on him. But then, so was placid, moon-faced Mrs. Mortimer. They had him cornered over by the fireplace, where Mrs. Grimmett was trying to impress him with her knowledge of the five different types of ghosts (apparitions, shadows, mists, orbs, and poltergeists).

  Angie eyed the very slight bulge in his waistcoat pocket—no one else would notice it, she was sure. Inside was a glove, saturated with a mix of turpentine and pulverized luminous paint. When put on in the dark and then illuminated by a shuttered lantern, it looked like a disembodied hand.

  They might or might not use it, though. The turpentine smell was still pretty strong. “We’ll play it by ear”—they’d said that to each other so often, it was their mantra.

  “I’m only saying—”

  “I know what you’re saying,” Angie interrupted her friend. “That I should be careful. And that’s good advice, but unfortunately it’s come a little too late.”

  “Oh, dear. I was afraid of that.”

  “But you mustn’t worry about me, Norah. Heavens, I’m older than you are.”

  “By six months. The point is, I’m older than you in other ways.”

  “The ways of love?” Angie raised and lowered her eyebrows the way Henry did.

  “Shh.”

  “Oh, who cares.” She laughed, but then she lowered her voice so the threesome on the sofa—Edwardia Darlington, Chester Grimmett, and Norah’s husband, Walker—couldn’t hear. “I’ll concede that you might have more . . . hands-on experience in that particular field.” Norah had to giggle at that. “But I’m more sophisticated than you in other ways.”

  “You’re an infant, my dear.”

  “No, I’m quite worldly.”

  “A child.”

  “Well, anyway—your advice has come too late. I’ve fallen in love with him.”

  Norah put her hands over her ears. “Oh, this is terrible.”

  “No, it’s not. Why?”

  “Because where can it lead? He’s . . . ”

  “A ghost detectiv
e? He’s not.”

  “What is he, then?”

  “I don’t know,” she had to admit, “but it doesn’t matter. After tonight we’re starting over.”

  Across the room, Mrs. Grimmett looked at the watch pinned to her bosom and said something impatient-sounding to Henry.

  “Norah, listen,” Angie said quickly, “if you should notice anything odd or—funny tonight, if anything should catch your eye that seems . . . ”

  “Just say it. If I catch you faking some spirit manifestation, will I kindly keep my mouth shut?”

  Angie blushed. “Just—you don’t have to lie. I’d never ask that, and I don’t want you involved in any way—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. There are many things about this whole business I disapprove of heartily, but I would never, ever betray you.”

  Angie seized her friend’s hand and squeezed it in gratitude.

  Mrs. Grimmett looked at her watch again. “Where is Mr. Darlington?” she asked the room at large. “It’s ten minutes past nine.”

  They had been assembled since 8:30, the séance to begin promptly at nine. Everyone was here except Lucien.

  “I’m sure he’ll be here any minute,” Edwardia said timidly.

  “Did he tell you he was going to be late?” the great lady asked.

  “No, only that I should come by myself, as he’d be leaving from the bank. I should think he’s just working late,” Edwardia turned to say to Mr. Grimmett and was rewarded with an approving nod.

  “I suppose we could start without him,” Henry said, with admirably convincing reluctance, Angie thought. No one was looking at her, so she winked at him. His cheeks reddened faintly—her reward.

  “But then we wouldn’t have a number divisible by three,” Mrs. Grimmett noted. “Do you think that would affect our powers?”

  Henry frowned and hmm-ed thoughtfully. “In this case, I don’t really think so, given the goodwill, the collective intelligence, the intensity of our group as it enters the harmonious and social spirit of fraternal intercourse and endeavors to promote the most powerful magnetic mode for which . . . ”

  Curses! A perfunctory knock, the squeal of the front door opening. Lucien appeared in the living room archway.

  “Good evening. Sorry to be late, but something’s come to my attention that I think you will all find quite interesting.”

  * * *

  Angie had no idea what Lucien’s interesting news might be, but as soon as he spoke, a terrible sinking feeling came over her. A premonition. She clutched the top of the wing chair, just for something to hold on to, her only thought a hopeless Oh, no. Henry—she wanted to go to him, but he looked white and frozen with the same dread paralyzing her. Lucien began to speak. She heard “drunkard,” “knave,” “philanderer,” “habitual liar,” but the words sounded like dialogue in a play, descriptions of the villain in a cheap melodrama. Not real.

  Mrs. Grimmett’s strident voice was like a slap in the face. “Mr. Darlington, please! You’re a guest here, sir. How dare you impugn Mr. Cleland’s character in this way? Unless you have proof, these insults are intolerable.”

  “I do have proof, madam. Indeed, I do.” Lucien took folded papers from an inside pocket, and Angie’s sinking sensation threatened to swallow her. “I have a report. From an agent, my good lady, a reputable person I employed to look into Mr. Cleland’s, or should I say Mr.—”

  “An ‘agent’?” Mrs. Grimmett cut in, patrician lips curled in distaste. “A detective, do you mean? To investigate Mr. Cleland?”

  But Lucien wasn’t intimidated by her anymore. “Mr. Wilde, madam—his name isn’t even Cleland! He’s Henry Wilde, also known as Harry Wilde, also known as Wild Harry Wilde!”

  Oh God, thought Angie. Another wild man.

  “And he’s not a ghost detective, he’s a newspaper reporter. Or he used to be—he worked for the Baltimore Sun until a year and a half ago, when they fired him for stealing another man’s work!”

  Angie sat down hard.

  “Born in Yonkers, father a railway conductor, mother deceased, one sibling, so on, so on . . . ” Lucien turned a page of his report. “First job, copy boy for the Brooklyn Daily Eagle, then a junior reporter for the New York Journal, followed by two years at the Boston Globe—that’s where he acquired his nickname. Hired at the Sun in 1891 as assistant city editor; worked there for three years, where it’s well known he was often drunk, disrespectful of authority, and of a low moral caliber. In fact, numerous people swore he carried on a sordid ‘love’ affair with the fiancée—the fiancée—of a fellow journalist.”

  Gasps all around.

  “And then, the coup de grâce. In ’94, an investigation revealed that he plagiarized significant portions of a national news story on the Pullman strike, whereupon he was summarily dismissed!”

  Into the deafening silence Henry said, “I was framed.”

  Lucien continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Not long after that, Harry Wilde turned into Henry Cleland. For the last year and a half, he’s made his dubious living as a confidence artist, preying on the hopes of innocent people and bilking money out of the credulous and unwary.”

  Mrs. Grimmett drew herself up. “Mr. Cle—” She faltered. “Mr. Cleland? You deny these claims, I’m sure?”

  Angie wanted him to shout, swear, stamp his feet, excoriate Lucien—challenge him to a duel! But he did none of those things. He swallowed several times. He looked glassy-eyed, as if he’d been concussed but was inexplicably still standing. “Not all. I wish I could deny them all. I can’t.”

  “No, he can’t,” Lucien gloated, “because they’re true. The man’s no better than a thief. He took advantage of all of us—I assume,” he added nastily. “I can’t speak for my cousin.”

  Henry seemed to wake up. “Angie knew nothing of this. I won’t let you insinuate otherwise.”

  “How gallant,” Lucien said with a sneer. “The fact that you lied to her as callously as you lied to the rest of us doesn’t improve your case, though, does it?”

  “It was you, Lucien,” Angie realized, “you and your agent—you broke into Henry’s room, didn’t you? That’s—illegal!” It was all she could think of to defend him.

  “My man may have gotten a little too eager, but I never authorized him to do any such thing. Anyway, nothing was stolen, was it?”

  Henry shook his head slowly.

  “I can’t believe this. It’s outrageous.” Mrs. Grimmett had sucked in so much air, she looked like a pigeon. “If what you say is true, Mr. Darlington, then we’ve all been duped.”

  “Has he taken money from you?” Lucien asked her hopefully.

  “Certainly not.”

  “What about you?” He turned to Angie. “How much did you give him?”

  “That’s personal. And irrelevant,” she thought to add, like a lawyer.

  Mrs. Grimmett whirled on Henry. “Well? What have you to say for yourself? We’re waiting.” She was furious, but she was hurt, too, or at least embarrassed. She kept blinking, as if tears might form if she didn’t. Angie knew exactly how she felt.

  She’d never seen Henry like this before. He looked ill. He reminded her of someone . . . who was it? Oh, she remembered. One of the plays in her father’s road show repertoire had been The Tragic End of John Brown. Henry looked like the John Brown character just before they hanged him.

  “There’s nothing I can say,” he said, and on the first words his voice cracked. “Except that I’m sorry. Yes, I took advantage of you, and you didn’t deserve it.”

  He turned from Mrs. Grimmett and faced Angie, who felt Norah’s hand tighten on her shoulder as if to say, Brace yourself . “There are things in my past I’m not proud of. It’s not an excuse, but I was young, just eighteen when I got into the newspaper business, and it’s ...” He reached out a pleading hand to Walker. “You know this, you can vouch for me here. It’s a rough job, even rougher on a big paper, lots of drinking, and stupid dares, men behaving like boys—or like soldiers in wartime,
because everything’s so fast and intense, it’s like—”

  “Spare us your self-serving blather,” Lucien butted in. “Is your name Henry Cleland? Is it? If not, are you or are you not a liar?”

  Henry kept looking at Angie, no one else. “My name is Henry Wilde. Cleland’s my middle name. But I never plagiarized anything. That was a put-up job, I swear.”

  “That’s it?” Lucien asked, as if amazed. “That’s your defense? You admit all the rest? You’re a drunk, a philanderer, you seduced another man’s fiancée?”

  “Yes. I mean, no. I didn’t ‘seduce’ her.”

  Angie stared at her hands in her lap.

  “I got fired because this guy, this injured party, filed a story under my name that he swiped from another paper. For revenge. A frame, he even planted fake notes in my desk. But believe me, Angie, Walker—I swear, I never plagiarized. I could never.”

  Walker said nothing, and his face was unreadable. Angie remembered the articles and essays she’d seen scattered about Henry’s room, all written by people with other names. Stolen? She would never tell—they could torture her before she would tell anyone about those papers—but the evidence seemed damning. And he looked so ashamed. He looked destroyed. She wasn’t sure whose disappointment in him hurt him more, hers or Walker’s.

  “I’ve heard enough. Come, Chester,” Mrs. Grimmett ordered, and her husband dutifully rose from the sofa.

  Mrs. Mortimer got up uncertainly. She’d fallen under Henry’s spell, too; “Such a charmer,” she would say whenever she saw him. She looked as if a beloved pet had snapped at her.

  “Shame on you,” Chester Grimmett said in a low voice to Henry—but Angie heard it because every one of her senses was focused on him. “You’ve insulted my wife. If I can think of a law you’ve broken, I’ll prosecute you for it.” And he followed Mrs. Grimmett out of the room.

  Lucien and Edwardia left next.

  When Angie stood up, Henry came toward her quickly, one hand up as if to stop her from leaving. She hadn’t been going to. She didn’t think. She really had no idea what she was going to do.