The Other Side

Miss Angiolina Darlington didn’t look like the woman Henry Cleland had been expecting. Vague as that was, and not that he’d given it much thought: a paying customer was a paying customer. From the tone of her irritating letters, though, he’d thought she’d be older, and either big and boat-bosomed, like Mrs. Beckingham, or raisin-faced and stringy from pinching her precious pennies.

Instead she was younger than he, and tiny, not much over five feet. But with a carriage so erect, the flat-topped straw hat on top of her dark, upswept hair stayed in constant parallel with the ground. Neat, inexpensive dress of a hyacinth color; polished shoes creased across the tops and worn at the heels; small purse in one gloved hand, closed parasol in the other.

He took this all in from behind a porch pillar as she looked both ways, a gratuitous precaution on sleepy Lexington Street, and stepped out into the road. Astra, who had been sniffing at bees on a bush in the flower border, heard the light clip of her feet on the pavement and did something completely out of character: he went out to greet her. Henry, who would have liked a few more seconds of hidden appraisal, a little more time to size up his new patron, had no choice but to do the same.

The thought crossed his mind that she could be anybody, not Angiolina Darlington at all. Too late now, though; he’d already lifted his hat and stuck out his hand. He admired her wide-set eyes, dubious and alert, and her soft, politely pursed mouth. She said, “Mr. Cleland,” and gave him the tips of her fingers, and he forgot his misgivings. Of course she was Angiolina Darlington. She could be no one else.

“A pleasure to meet you, ma’am. I was just coming across to make your—Down, Astra. Down. This isn’t like him, he’s taken quite a—”

“Astra?” Miss Darlington sank to her knees and laid purse and parasol on the grass. “His name is Astra?” Her laugh was a quick, bubbly outburst, unexpected and charming. Henry crouched down opposite, and they both petted the dog. He had to pull him away when Astra jumped on Miss Darlington’s knees and tried to lick her chin.

“Not too . . . spartan?” Was that a twinkle in her eye? “I live there,” she said, pointing behind her. White clapboard, two stories, wide porch, seedy yard. Same as his. They didn’t bode well for his prospects, Miss Darlington’s narrow circumstances. And yet in spite of that, he warmed to her. They had poverty in common.

“I was hoping I might see the house today,” Henry said, matching his pace to hers. After the train trip, it felt good to stretch his legs.

“It’s not far, although in a completely different sort of neighborhood.” Not as run-down as this one, he took that to mean. “But let’s walk through town first. Paulton’s growing—more of a city than a town now, as you’ll see. Named, of course, after Paul Revere.”

The merry, surprised laugh bubbled up again. She cut it off quickly, putting on a sober face. “Oh, I think that’s highly unlikely. Although they did love the house. I can imagine them not wanting to leave it.”

She stopped. They were at an intersection, Lexington and Concord Avenue; downtown Paulton lay before them. “Shall I tell you now, or would you rather see the house first?”

Was it a trick question? Did she think he would know who haunted the house by looking at it? “It’s up to you,” he said judiciously.

“The Paulton Republic,” he read in the curtained window of a four-story brick building they were passing. “Any good?”

Walker Hersh, Editor and Publisher, Henry read to himself, walking backward. The name didn’t ring any bells. Good.

Strolling along the elm-lined streets, passing a white-steepled church about every other block, Henry confirmed the impression of Paulton he’d formed from the train: tidy, pleasant, typical New England village. A bit prettier than most, a little more prosperous. It even had a college; Miss Darlington pointed it out as they passed the archway to a small but handsome enclave of stone buildings. All in all, a fine place to spend a week or two in the fullness of spring. Particularly since he had, at the moment, no other plans.

“Ah, yes. Well, actually, you might say it was passed down to me by blood. My great-grandfather, Baronet Spenser, was practically on speaking terms with the ghosts and spirits in his castle.”

He waved his fingers in the air dismissively. “Oh, technically, but I think of America as my home. The family moved to Philadelphia when I was quite small. Where was I?”

“Right. The gift skipped a couple of generations—my grandfather was busy shipbuilding, and my father, an amateur biologist, was too much of a natural skeptic to give credence to his own senses. But then it popped up in me.”

“Also, I have a degree in engineering from the University of London, so I like to think my temperament embodied both essentials for the work I do: tolerance of the unknowable coupled with rigid adherence to the laws of science.”

Hard to say what she made of all that. She had a way of pursing her lips that might mean she was thinking things over or might mean she was trying not to laugh.

Miss Darlington was anything but conventionally attractive, but he liked the way she looked. Neat and tidy. She’d be the smart one, the kind of girl you’d want on your side in a contest or debate. Or a game. A small, feminine package of humor and intelligence.

“Your dog is awfully well behaved.” The words were barely out of her mouth when Astra took the opportunity to lift his leg and pee on a lamppost. Instead of blushing or looking away, Miss Darlington pressed down a smile. “A vital part of your investigations, you wrote. So he’s a sort of . . . ghost dog?”

She’d have pursued that, he could tell, but luckily they had arrived at their destination. “Here we are,” she said with a small flourish. “This is Willow House.”

Again, not quite what he’d been expecting. In fact, not at all. Quirky Victorian architecture made for the best haunted houses, and ideally they were in isolated locales, preferably near cemeteries. This one was on an elderly but fairly lively street, set back from it by a stone wall and a spread of mature willow trees in full bloom. He admired the stately, Adam-style front, three stories of white-painted brick divided by tall, linteled windows, four up, four down, and two graceful gables on top. “It’s beautiful,” he said truthfully.

Miss Darlington turned to him, her face transformed. “Yes. It is. That portico,” she said, pointing above the front door to a small balcony surrounded by a waist-high balustrade. “That’s where she dances.”

They went along a flagstone walk between yew hedges, past a swing hanging from the branch of another willow tree, past a stagnant lily pond. The hedges gave way, the vista opened, and they were in a rose garden.

“This was my grandmother’s,” Miss Darlington said with a note of shy pride. “I’ve been trying to tend it since she passed away, but . . . ” She put her hands out and shrugged. “I’m not my grandmother.”

“Gorgeous,” Henry said, truthfully again. He couldn’t imagine how this could have been more beautiful, no matter who was tending it. Roses everywhere, in clumps, on trellises, climbing over low stone walls. Bees made a constant, industrious buzz, and the smell was intoxicating.

“We’ll have to go inside through the basement—that’s the only key I have.” She went down a mossy cement stairway to a padlocked metal door, which she unlocked with a key she took from her purse. “Watch your head. Be careful, wait until I . . . ” She moved away in the dimness, and presently a light came on. So the house was electrified. Henry saw that they were in a . . . he wasn’t sure what. A plant, a workshop, some sort of laboratory.

“I may have,” he temporized, eyeing a long center table laden with small machines and engines, jars, bottles, vises, tools, books, metal contraptions. She’d said her grandfather had been dead for months, but his workshop looked like he’d just gone upstairs for lunch. “What did he invent?”

“Well . . . here’s a pocket ashtray. A gentleman clips it to his vest or coat pocket. You can even monogram it.”

“Well . . . it was going to be a device to keep you awake. You wear this collar around your neck, and if you start to nod off, it activates an alarm.”

She looked at him levelly. “I know what you’re thinking. But don’t be fooled by the—the frivolity of these gadgets, Mr. Cleland. My grandfather’s imagination could be a bit whimsical at times, but he was also a genius. And he never got credit for his greatest invention: the gramophone disk.”

“Everyone thinks it was Emile Berliner, but Grampa thought of it first. But then he forgot to send in his patent application, so he never got credit. And it was revolutionary—it made the old cylinder technology obsolete.” She gave a quick headshake, as if she hadn’t intended to go into all that. “Anyway. Let’s go upstairs; I’ll show you the house.”

“This used to be the library,” said Miss Darlington, standing in the middle of the kitchen. “My grandfather thought the kitchen ought to be closer to the dining room, so he moved it.”

Henry was perfecting the art of the noncommittal hum. “Very sensible. That, uh, thing up there . . . ” He pointed to an overhead set of tracks or cables running along the ceiling.

“A moving tray. It goes to the dining room first, then down the hall to the front parlor. For transporting food and drink. Well, anything—books, the newspaper . . . ”

She looked a little defensive. “My grandmother had terrible arthritis, so he was always thinking of ways to try to make life easier for her.”

One of the ways in which he’d made life easier for her was to ruin the symmetry of the entry hall by installing a wire cage in front of the center staircase. It rose and descended via a hand-cranked rope-and-pulley gizmo attached to the wall.

“Precisely. Are you getting a sense of anything, Mr. Cleland? Any psychic vibrations or connections yet?”

He narrowed his eyes and allowed a dramatic pause. “There is something, yes. Definitely. Something. Too soon to speak of it, though.”

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.”

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.”

“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—”

“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.”

“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.”

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?”

“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?”